The Bureau of Loopholes
by Gileonnen
Summary: In the time before Harry's birth, a campaign demanding equal rights for 'humans with accidentally-inflicted preternatural conditions' makes a stand. But werewolves and vampires may find it a hard road to follow.
1. The Letter

Bureau of Loopholes

Bureau of Loopholes

Official Statement

Dear Mr. R. J. Lupin,

We regret to inform you that we have been unable to find a suitable clause, stipulation, discrepancy, or precedent which would allow you to justify your case in a court of law. While your request will remain on file, and you will be immediately alerted to any policy changes that might be relevant to your case, there is nothing that we can do at this time with any sense of legality.

If you wish to terminate your case, please contact our co-director, Mr. Peter K. Pettigrew, by owl.

Sincerely,

Ms. Colleen R. Sheridan

Director of the Bureau of Loopholes

Remus examined the letter for a second time. His case . . . it meant _everything_ to him. He had sworn to defend his people, and Peter had said that the Bureau of Loopholes could find anything you wanted to make a case. The firm's record was good: fifty thousand satisfied clients. How could this almost-mythical bureau have failed him?

As he put the paper back into the envelope, a second piece of parchment caught his eye – less official in appearance, it had the look of some stationary that Peter had bought for all of his friends before leaving Hogwarts. Remus pulled out the paper, curious as to its contents, though he suspected that they'd be a disappointment.

Hey, Rem,

I just reviewed your case: I see why the researchers couldn't find loopholes for you. Your case is too broad, and the Bureau won't meddle in broad matters like rights for _all_ H.W.A.I.P.C. If you'd just focus on one case at a time, you might end up with rights for everyone eventually.

Good luck!

-Wormtail

Take it one case at a time. Right. How could he take this one case at a time when there were _thousands_ of cases to be addressed?


	2. At the Bureau

The Bureau of Loopholes had been known as the Sheridan Firm for most of its existence

The Bureau of Loopholes had been known as the Sheridan Firm for most of its existence. A large and prestigious legal firm with a spotless reputation and a team of dedicated researchers and representatives, it had been passed down through the Sheridan family for generations. It had been given Ministry Aid Firm status in 1967 at the urging of Philip Sheridan, the firm's director at the time, and most upstanding witches and wizards agreed that there could be no more respectable institution in the history of legal practice. Of course, when Philip Sheridan died and his daughter Colleen took over, she promptly proceeded to throw the concept of reputability out the window.

In 1968, Colleen Sheridan decided that a name change would be good for publicity. To implement this change, she gathered the finest in the field, a host of stand-up comedians, wireless personalities, and wits from the research department, to concoct a suitable title for her company. It was Harold Pettigrew, head of the research department, who finally suggested the accepted name: the Bureau of Loopholes. A delighted Ms. Sheridan immediately promoted him to co-director.

After the change of names, the focus of the firm shifted as well. While once it had been like any other legal firm, supplying lawyers and law-interpreters in droves, now the Bureau began to put more emphasis on the research department. Claimants now wrote to the firm with an outline of their case and could receive a detailed listing of laws and 'loopholes' that would help them represent themselves in court, at less charge than they would be required to pay for a lawyer. While the Bureau would no longer collect as much money per client, the _number_ of clients skyrocketed.

Of course, reflected Peter as he mentally reviewed the company's history, the Bureau couldn't help everyone. Like Remus', some cases were too explosive to be looked into. After the Bureau began to question and interpret Ministry laws in its own ways, the Ministry had yanked away their endorsement, and an extremely peeved Colleen had instructed her staff not to 'step on any Ministry toes'. Taking on the entirety of Ministry policy toward humans with accidentally-inflicted preternatural conditions would not so much step on Ministry toes as it would attempt to crush the entire Ministry leg. As much as Ms. Sheridan would have liked to confront the Ministry head-to-head on civil-rights issues, she reluctantly recognized that perhaps that wouldn't be the brightest course of action at this time.

So Remus Lupin and his campaign would wait for developments in the Ministry, while the Bureau of Loopholes would wait for a shift in power from the Ministry to the people.

Peter signed the personal note to Remus and put it in the envelope with Colleen's form letter. He cared as much as anyone about things like werewolf rights and hag/warlock integration, but he was in no position to do anything about it. The Board of Judges had been known to rule sympathetically in the past; if Lupin's movement – he'd forgotten its name again – would deal with the cases one by one, eventually they would have all their cases resolved.

"Still a rotten way to do business," he muttered, closing the envelope and attaching it to the owl's leg.

"What?" asked a coworker, Mundungus Fletcher, looking up from some reports on monetary government reparations.

"It's really rotten, making the H.W.A.I.P.C.'s trot their cases out for the Ministry courts one at a time," Peter commented, checking his watch. Five minutes until his shift was done.

Mundungus rubbed his hands together, with a con artist's gleam in his eyes. "Ah, but if they have to come to us one at a time, think of the money we'd be making!"

Peter shook his head at the unscrupulous man. Fletcher was brilliant, really, a terrible liar but excellent at partial truths, and a veritable genius when it came to finding loopholes – in other words, the epitome of a lawyer, and an ideal Bureau employee. But he was the kind of self-obsessed person that Peter had vowed never to become. "It's not about the money. It's about the fact that we have about sixteen thousand people in this world who are discriminated against because of things they can't change. Doesn't that matter to you?"

Mundungus nodded sagely. "It does, believe me. My auntie Atropos is a hag, and there's no sweeter woman alive. But . . . doesn't the _money_ matter to you?"

"No. It doesn't, and if I didn't have an obligation to this company I'd be out protesting with the rest of them," Peter spat out, more vehemence in the words than he had intended. Mundungus threw up his hands in surrender.

"Sorry, sorry. I just can't understand people who don't want money; it's such a _real_ form of power. If I ever got rich, think of what I could do!" he exulted, smiling with white, pointed teeth. "Those who don't want power are mad."

Peter looked at his watch again. Not much longer, and he'd be free for the weekend. As he shoved the robe sleeve back over his timepiece, Mundungus' raven-cunning eyes alighted on the gold and silver.

"What's this . . . my, my, a _lovely_ watch, this! Real gold, hmm?" he asked, yanking the arm closer to peer at the Roman numerals and faux-crystal.

"No," Peter said hurriedly, pulling his arm back. "Just painted, I think. It cost fifteen sickles at a London pawn shop."

"Ah, well," sighed the other man, almost visibly deflating. "It _is_ a lovely thing, though." But he brightened up after glancing at the watch once more. "It's over! No more work until Monday! See you then, Peter; the people at the Leaky Cauldron need me!" With a chuckle and a wave, Mundungus Apparated away to his favorite venue – they always did a roaring trade on Friday nights.

Peter stroked the arm on which he wore his watch. It was his left arm, though he was left-handed, a choice he had made for the simple reason that regulation post owls tended to land on your right arm, and he didn't want the watch scratched. However, that wrist wasn't solely adorned by a cheap timepiece. A small, reddish brand was etched into the soft flesh of his pulse-point, symbol of the group (or was cult the proper term?) that Jason Macnair had more or less bullied him into. He didn't mind, really; though other members were stunt-pullers and such, killing people fanatically, he reasoned that as long as he kept well out of it, he might gain a bit of extra power without having to lose what mattered: his friends. Nevertheless, he didn't want to be discovered as a 'Death Eater', as the Magical Law Enforcement officers were searching for such people as suspects in murder cases.

Those who didn't want power _were_ mad, but those who didn't care about their friends and their causes were just stupid.


	3. Protests

"But Mrs

"But Mrs. Dinkenbuger—"

"No buts about it! You've had your last chance! I want you—"

"It was only a day late!"

"I told you when you came here that—"

"But we weren't even _here_ to pay the rent! I was on a business trip, and my wife was on assignment—"

"That's no excuse! I've made too many exceptions for you and your wife. I want both of you _out_ by six o'clock, and I'll take no more backtalk!" The landlady crossed massive, meaty arms over an ample chest and glared. James Potter matched her glare for glare . . . but when she shifted her competition-level body into a more comfortable position, he was the first to back down.

"All right. I'll get Lily and my things, and we'll leave." As he walked past the woman, her pebble-gray eyes following him through the door, he gathered the nerve for a final act of bravado. "But you won't be getting _this_ month's rent!" Dodging a hamfisted swing, he sprinted up the stairs toward his flat.

"She just _evicted_ us?" Lily asked, looking around the flat they had been living in for the past three months. "Why?"

"Because we turned in our rent just _one day_ late," James replied shortly, packing his clothes, books, and papers into a trunk. He shut the lid with a thud and a click of locks, then set to the task of shrinking their furniture to fit it into a smaller box.

"It couldn't be just _that. _Mr. Vanderbilt said that she was very lenient with him when he was a whole _week_ late with _his _rent," pressed Lily, carefully wrapping a camera in a spare set of robes and placing it in a box, along with a vivid blue quill pen and a notebook.

James shrugged, surveying the place thoroughly. Everything packed, and it wasn't yet six. Ah, yes, that was it! He'd forgotten to pack the clock! "She might have been thinking of a few other things, too," he admitted. "Said that she'd made too many exceptions for us."

"Well, there _was_ that horrid incident with your owl . . . and she never did like it when Sirius came to visit on his motorbike . . . and perhaps transfiguring her couch into a cow might not have sat well with her – but she didn't need to throw us out for it!" Lily proclaimed, picking up her packages and setting them on James' trunk. "Where are we supposed to go?"

"Do you think any of your friends from work—"

"_No_. We will _not_ stay with Rita, no matter how desperate we get. What about some of your Ministry colleagues?"

"I don't think they'd take us – most are living in worse conditions than ours, and the rest . . . didn't you say yourself that they were snobs?"

"'Self-important pigs' was the term I used, I think."

And then they fell back on their old standby. "What about Sirius or Peter?" both asked in unison.

A ponderous pounding tread on the stairs alerted them to Mrs. Dinkenburger's imminent arrival. "I don't know where Peter's living, so I guess Sirius it is."

As the door was flung open with a resounding _bang_, the packed-away clock began to chime. In rapt amazement, Mrs. Dinkenburger watched the young couple vanish into thin air.

In a small house in northeast London, a pile of trunks and boxes appeared without warning on Sirius Black's coffee table. The two people that followed were a bit luckier; they managed to land on the nearby couch.

"Sirius? Hello?" James called, looking around the dim room. Their luggage had broken the hapless coffee table, but that was something that could be fixed without much difficulty. The faded red couch had two dents where the couple had fallen – long-distance Apparation tended to drop the spellcasters from a height. A few pictures had fallen from the walls, luckily landing unbroken on the shag carpet, and a standing lamp had crashed into a writing desk. Neither was seriously harmed.

Lily picked her way through the chaos, looking for some sign of life or residence. The front door was locked; out of curiosity, she opened it. A note, neatly taped onto the door, read '_Gone protesting – back when the hunger strike ends._'

"James!" Lily called, closing the door again. "Sirius is out!" She made her way back to the living room, where her husband had flicked on a wireless.

" . . . _Reports of sit-in protests and hunger strikes point to increased activity among humans with accidentally-inflicted preternatural conditions (H.W.A.I.P.C). We've managed to get exclusive interviews with some of the protestors who are participating in a hunger strike on Ministry property. On to Tricia Snyder with a live report."_

"Sirius left a note taped to his door that said he'd be protesting," Lily commented, turning the volume up. "Maybe we'll hear something about him."

On the Minister of Magic's well-manicured lawns, the protest was going well. The number of drug-pushers and other riffraff that usually associated themselves with liberation movements was startlingly low, while participation was high. The media, in a rare act of daring, had decided to interview the 'inhuman monsters'. Yes, everything was going quite well.

Except for the significant fact that the Minister didn't seem to care about the activists who had camped amidst the topiary.

Remus Lupin leaned back against a stone pot that contained a rather large, sculpted bush. The long wait had begun.

Making his way through the sea of bodies, Sirius Black sighted his friend. "Knew you'd make it! The protesters here have been waiting for you – you're a real hero to them," he stated with a broad smile, kneeling next to Remus. "What's the word from the Bureau? Are you going to take your case before the Board of Judges?"

Lupin handed him the crumpled and folded form letter, as well as Peter's advice. Reading over the Bureau of Loopholes' opinion, Sirius released bated breath in an indignant puff of air. "Should've expected this. Corporations never like getting involved; probably they think they'll annoy the Ministry if they give us anything." He laughed, a barking sound that was exacerbated by his drying throat. "And they _will _annoy the Ministry. That's the point: if the Ministry's peeved enough, they'll have to give us what we want."

"What _do_ you want? You're not an H.W.A.I.P.C. Why risk your neck to protest with us?"

Sirius shrugged affably. "I'm a liberal. I hate prejudice. Besides, having sympathetic people helps your case."

Two reporters, crowd-surfing, met at a marble pillar to strategize. "They don't want to be interviewed. How could anyone not want to be interviewed?" demanded one, brushing off her cherry-tinted robes.

"And this could be the next big story – how does this sound? Gang of Hooligans Gathers for a Monstrous . . . um, Sit-in! No, that's not scathing enough. 'The Monsters Without, the Monster Within'. It could attack _both _sides!" The journalist prattled on happily, clutching an acid-green quill pen in her hand.

Both sighted the folk lounging by the pot at the same time. "Gang up on them, shall we?" Tricia Snyder asked, preparing to cast the transmission charm that would send her interviews to the station.

"The quill is mightier than the sword!" Rita Skeeter laughed, fishing a writing tablet from her handbag (much larger on the inside than it looked on the outside) and sucking at her Quick-Quotes Quill.

Like a pair of overly-manicured lionesses stalking their prey, the two women advanced.

"Sir, what is your name?" asked a rather unattractive, blond young woman, setting her notebook and quill on the floor. "What are your opinions on this protest? Are you a vampire? A werewolf?"

"This is Tricia Snyder, on location at the Minister of Magic's house," the other one said, smiling with far more shiny white teeth than should be allowed. "We bring you an interview with . . ." she leaned toward Sirius.

"Um, Sirius Black." He looked up at her face, uncomfortably six inches away from his.

Remus shook his head at the journalist, moving around to the other side of the pot. She picked up her notebook and quill and followed him, pink-polka-dotted yellow robes swishing. The Quick-Quotes Quill wrote on.

__

The unkempt man evades young reporter Rita Skeeter's attempts at engaging him in conversation. He has a shifty look in his hollow brown eyes.

"If you don't mind bluntness, Mr. Black, what is your condition?" Tricia Snyder inquired, making herself comfortable on the flagstone around the pot.

"I'm fine, thank you." This elicited a false laugh from the seasoned radio-journalist.

"I meant, are you a . . . a werewolf, for instance?" she elaborated.

"No, I'm not an H.W.A.I.P.C."

She frowned, but then decided that it might be an interesting angle from which to approach the story: a concerned outsider! Perfect! "What is it about this cause that makes you willing to become an activist?" Tricia questioned, her smile becoming, if possible, more toothy.

"I just don't like prejudice," he replied laconically.

Tracy gave another forced laugh. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Black. It's been a pleasure talking to you." She hurriedly moved on to find a more fiery speaker.

"Why won't you talk to me?!" demanded Rita Skeeter, swiftly losing her patience with Remus. The Quill was having a field day. _He rudely refuses to comment, perhaps having some dark secret whose revelation could mean arrest or worse. Is he simply an example of the insolence of today's youth? Or is the truth much worse?_

At last, seeing that the woman could only paint him in an unfavorable light, Remus Lupin made a statement. "If you think today's youth is rude, you might want to write a special issue about today's reporters. And perhaps you should have an editor adjust that pen – a secret isn't a person, and so using 'whose' is incorrect grammar."

The pen stopped dead, then raced back to the offending line and crossed out 'whose'. Rita plucked the pen from the paper. It squirmed in her red-nailed grip, but soon bowed to her superior might. "One of the issues that most concerns your people is that they can't get good employment, right?" she queried, smiling. She had a gold tooth.

"Yes; those of us who _have_ work do it for below minimum wage, in dangerous professions, without worker's comp or permission to join unions. But that's only one of the issues that concerns us," he added. Journalists had always been tricky people to deal with; one had to either say nothing to them, or just the right things.

"How would you like a job as an editor at the Daily Prophet?"


	4. Aftermath

Marley Macmillan led a team of Hit Wizards toward a most unexpected goal – the Minister of Magic's lawn

"They've done _what_?!" Marley Macmillan demanded, staring at the face in his fireplace. "How could they . . . I'll be right on it," he answered, scrabbling to throw his official robes on over the day robes that he wore during 'time off'.

"Good." Chris Fletchley, the chief officer for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, shook her head. "I know your ways, Macmillan. Don't do anything that could get us in trouble. Your prejudice won't help anyone."

"Got it. I'll get the others." With that affirmation from her subordinate, Chris took her head from the fire.

"I hope he doesn't hurt anyone," she murmured, thinking of her own radical days. Though her protests had been in the name of feminism, she could reluctantly sympathize with any civil rights cause. It felt _wrong_ to order a supremacist pig like Marley to handle a job that he'd enjoy too much, and accomplish with sick, sadistic glee. He _was_ the head of his branch, though, and so it followed that he should handle this task. Still, the thought of what brutalities he might commit drove Chris shuddering into the kitchen, where she drank two cups of coffee – black. The wireless reports would surely be out after a bit, though it would be hideously late when they _did_ come out, and she wanted to be awake to hear about the inevitable violent acts that her men would perform. _So I'll know not to make this mistake in the future._

Marley Macmillan was preparing a team of Hit Wizards for an assault on a most unexpected place – the Minister of Magic's lawn.

What did those . . . those _things_ think they were? What _right_ did they think they had to invade a human's property? Were they even _capable_ of thought? Marley frowned. It did no good to get philosophical about a bunch of creatures that claimed to be human. It just made his job more difficult. He didn't need complications in his job.

The Hit Wizards were to Apparate within the crowd, stun everyone in sight, and then perform banishing charms on them that would send the freaks off government property. The next step in their mission was to erect a magical barrier around the place, ensuring that these H.W.A.I.P.C.'s would be unable to return to the grounds. It was a simple mission, and one that suited him. An added benefit: they could be as rough as they liked, if they met with resistance. It was clearly stated in DMLE regulation 42b, Marley's personal favorite and the one that Fletchley had campaigned the hardest to eradicate.

"Ready?" he asked his team. "Remember your Apparation points. Five. Four. Three. Two. One!" As the countdown ended, fifty-two wizards disappeared from the small, crowded chamber and reappeared among the protestors.

It was pandemonium. Remus had been about to reply to Rita Skeeter with a polite demurral when a witch in black robes with 'DMLE' emblazoned on the back suddenly appeared in front of him. She'd caught her breath, shuddered, and had begun to cast Stunning Spells with terrifying alacrity, sending people toppling right and left. Those few who had realized what was going on had scrambled for cover, some screaming, those with more presence of mind Apparating away, some, like Remus, dodging behind flower pots and pillars in hopes that they would be spared. As Rita Skeeter had fallen, a tower of yellow with flamingo-hued spots, Remus had sprinted to a topiary garden. And watched the bloodless battle continue with wide eyes.

From his place, hidden in the shrubbery, Remus saw the Hit Wizards check everyone for signs of consciousness with sharp raps to the fleshy parts of their bodies. Sometimes, a choked cry would rise, followed swiftly by a shout of "_Stupefy!_" A few sentences spoken by the Hit Wizards were audible, not that they did him any good. ("We've hit some journalists, Marley! The press is going to hate us for this." "Is _that_ a hag, then? Must be, she's so horrid-looking.")

"You! What're you doing here?" demanded a harsh voice from behind him, and Remus froze. "Turn around," the voice ordered; he slowly complied. The man was thickset, dressed in DMLE robes, with a wand out.

"Sir?" Remus tried, biting his lip and extending a hand. The man recoiled, stepping back, his wand quivering.

"Hands up, you inhuman _thing_! _Stupefy!_"

Remus didn't hear the sickening crack that his head made as it met the flagstones.

When Sirius came to, he found himself buried in a pile of bodies. Their dead weight pressed on him, and he fought a wave of nausea. That skinny man with the weasel face had kicked him in the stomach and Stunned him . . . and then he was here, surrounded by a stinking, oppressive mass of flesh that might or might not be alive. Ugh.

Fighting his way through the heap, Sirius finally reached the relatively clean air of the city. He surveyed the mound that he had only seconds before been a part of – a grim sight. Robes in a miasma of hues were strewn through a sea of limp, corpselike bodies with limbs flung out at grotesque angles and faces wearing only abject terror or betrayed surprise . . . it looked like some scene from a holocaust.

Sirius slid down the pile, trying not to crush anyone more than necessary, and made his way to the edge of the property, where a pale fire had been lit against the impending gloom. The forms that huddled around that fire somehow seemed more pathetic than the heap of hundreds; these hunched figures, unlike their unconscious counterparts, _knew_ that they had lost their battle.

He joined them, feeling the same overwhelming defeat. A man he didn't know offered him some chocolate, which he declined – perhaps the hunger strike was still on. The man shrugged, popping the candy into his own mouth and leaning back. _He_ obviously didn't think it necessary to abstain from eating.

"A bit of a fiasco, wasn't it?" he asked, tossing the wrapper into the fire. "Still, we're one step closer."

"One step closer?" demanded the woman sitting on his right. "We were rounded up before we'd even begun to protest! If that's what you call progress, I'd hate to see what you consider backsliding!"

"Don't you see?" asked the candy-eater. "They got the journalists, too. Writers and newscasters have their pride; they'll send out scathing reports on police brutality. Which can only make us look good. And if we have the media on our side, how long will it take for the people to follow?"

Across the fire from Sirius, a man nodded. "If we'd stayed where we were with no DMLE interference, the public at large would have eventually grown sick of coverage. Those few that supported us would probably turn away, finding some less publicized cause to advocate. However, this defeat has presented us with a better situation. We will be depicted as a movement worth supporting, an 'underdog', if you will. And another important fact: Rita Skeeter was among the journalists that were Stunned. She takes any available opportunity to disparage this group or that – with this turn of events, it'll be _that_ group rather than _this _one." His accent was mildly French; were foreigners joining the protest, then?

As more people gathered around the fire, Sirius finally permitted himself a smile. Yes, the people around the fire knew that they had been defeated. But for the first time, that was beginning to sound like the winning position.

James and Lily had stopped paying much attention to the wireless after Tricia Snyder's transmissions had been 'mysteriously cut short'. They had decided by mutual, unspoken agreement to straighten up the results of their arrival while they waited for Sirius to return. While magic was used where nothing else would have sufficed, tasks like reinstating the pictures on the walls and restoring the hapless desk to order were performed by hand. Once the room had been restored to its previous state, husband and wife sat together on the couch, listening with half an ear to the wireless as they watched the gloom deepen.

After some time, the announcer stated in a relieved tone that Tricia was back with the results of 'crowd control' on the part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

__

"While on assignment at the site of the protest, I was witness to cruelty and barbarism initiated by a pack of howling animals – I am referring, of course, to the DMLE Hit Wizards. They Apparated within the crowd, gave the protestors no opportunity to disperse, and fired Stunners into the throng. I kept from being shot down for some time by pretending to have been Stunned, but this only gave me an opportunity to view the true face of the DMLE. They systematically beat everyone, checking for those like me who were pretending unconsciousness. I wasn't spared their shameful violence; a man kicked me in the stomach three times, stepped on my chest, and then Stunned me. When I awoke, it was at the edge of a huge pile of bodies: this was where they had unceremoniously dumped us. After asking among other victims, I found that, even as bad as it looked on the outside, the truth was far worse. As it stands, there have been thirty-seven casualties reported. Fifteen of those were results of severe beatings or other intentional bloodshed, nineteen deaths were caused by suffocation, and the remaining three are cause undisclosed. The names of the victims are not being released at this time. If the Department of Magical Law Enforcement can casually kill humans – yes, these so-called 'monsters' are, indeed, human_ – then I lead us to the question: how much will we let slip by? Will we ignore the _real_ monsters in this case?"_

Tricia Snyder's tirade died down, to be replaced by The Brooms' new hit single, 'Poison for the Soul'. James and Lily didn't look at each other, though they clasped hands. The unspoken question remained, poised, unasked. Was Sirius one of the thirty-seven nameless casualties?

Peter Pettigrew began writing, paused, and then scratched out the sentence. It didn't have the right tone, didn't grab the interest . . . no good. And so Peter rethought the sentence, checking its wording, and wrote it down. Much better! He liked writing, and hoped to become a novelist some day. Not a journalist; Lily had told him enough horror stories about _that_ line of work that he doubted he would ever want to enter her profession. Anyway, he _had_ a full-time career at the Bureau; he didn't need another all-consuming job. Writing for relaxation, though, was to his liking. Settling into his desk chair, Peter turned on the wireless for some good writing music. And he caught the broadcast of the aftermath of the protest.

__

"Will we ignore the real_ monsters in this case?"_ The phrase, though it referred to the Hit Wizards who had been the perpetrators of mass murder, cut at him. The Bureau was as much a guilty party as any other, if only because of its refusal to jeopardize a successful business by taking a stand.

Peter found another piece of parchment and began to write a letter. He wouldn't ignore the real monsters; how could he, when he was one of them?

Chris Fletchley woke at the harsh tapping sound on her kitchen window. She had expected this, of course. After the stunt Marley had pulled, criticism was only natural. Welcome, in fact; she felt that she deserved some Howlers for being so stupid as to sanction such official action. But to her surprise, only one owl awaited her. It was a smallish creature, rather sad-looking, and it carried a white envelope.

"Whose are you?" she asked the bird, opening the window to the night. The owl landed on her arm, dropped the letter, and flew out as quickly as it had come.

Four years ago, before she had entered the DMLE, she would have stooped to catch the envelope before it hit the ground. Now, though, she led a more sober life. Chris bent to pick up her mail, then sat down again by the counter.

__

Christine Fletchley,

I am sorry that I could be no more polite with you, but I think you should reconsider your job as chief officer of your department. If prejudice is going to color your judgement to the extent that you condone or are negligent of the murder of humans, I don't believe that you are fit for the position. Previous to this, I held you in high regard; you seemed willing to make necessary changes for the sake of mercy. How could you have changed so much? I am willing to help anyone who wishes to bring charges against you and/or the Department of Magical Law enforcement. You may be facing legal suits in the future. Prepare yourself.

Peter K. Pettigrew

Co-director of the Bureau of Loopholes

This simple letter had hurt her more deeply than any other message could have. How could someone think she didn't _care_? How could they think that this was on her orders? _Because it was_. _Because, no matter how much you try to deny it, this is all _your_ doing. Your orders, your directives, your bad decisions._

Chris put her head down on the counter. No tears. She didn't like crying. No, Chris Fletchley was doing something more relevant than weeping. She was planning a defensive move that would get her out of this mess. That is, provided there _was_ one.


	5. At the Leaky Cauldron

Remus Lupin woke with a splitting pain at the back of his head and a blanket over his body

"Hang on, Val! This man's not dead!"

Remus Lupin opened his eyes slowly, the hovering, indistinct forms and colors gradually coming into focus as two women bending over him. One of them held up a lantern to examine his face, and he closed his eyes against the glare.

"Val, he's had a rough time of it! He doesn't need you blindin' him!" The chastising voice had a strong accent, but it was one that Remus couldn't recognize.

"Ah, give it a rest," another, younger voice replied, and her Irish brogue was more apparent. "Now that he's alive, we may as well fix him up."

"I'll be all right, th—"

"Dearie, where are you hurt?" interrupted the older voice. The woman didn't wait for his reply before lifting his head (the sudden rush of motion made him feel ill) and feeling at the back. "Oh, Val, just _look_ at this lump!" she exclaimed, turning her patient over. Soon, two sets of hands were feeling at his head.

"Perhaps he's concussed," the Irish woman—Val—suggested. "Some of the purple stuff, then?"

"No, blue, I think; what d'you use on your Sean when he gets knocked about by them Bludgers?"

"He doesn't get hit in the head, now does he?" Val asked in a frosty voice. "But my brother Aidan concusses when you _look_ at him hard, and Mum always said that of Quirian's Head Tonic worked wonders—that's green, I think. Or is it purple?"

"P'raps it's blue. Check with Poppy, there's a dear." While Val ran off, the other woman turned Remus over again. "Wot's your name, dearie?" she asked, and Remus opened his eyes. She had a seamed and wrinkled face, with sharp, dark eyes and a kind expression.

"Remus," he replied, briefly. "And you really don't need—" He was cut off by the grip of her bony fingers on his chin. She chuckled.

"I'm Atropos. Atropos Fletcher." In the use of the last name, there was a subtle chastisement for his informality. "And the snip of a thing that just ran off is Valerie Lynch. Young boy like you would know who Sean Lynch is, right? The Irish Quidditch player?" Remus shook his head (which brought another surge of nausea); while he had always enjoyed playing Quidditch, he'd never really kept up on the professional sport and its players. "No? Well, Val's his wife. Right kind of her, to take time off from that harum-scarum child of hers to help us out, but she's an old friend, right?" Atropos looked back over her shoulder. "Val's comin' back now with a bottle; we'll have you fixed up in a moment, dearie."

Sure enough, Val had returned, carrying a brown vial. "It's red, look!" she called, pouring a few drops on her hand. She then proceeded to push the rim of the bottle into Remus' mouth, and he sputtered as a poignant taste—like a boy's first, stolen sip of scotch—flooded his senses. He pushed the bottle away, but must have swallowed some of the nasty red tonic, because his nausea had faded to nothing, and the painful lump he had received after being Stunned was almost perceptibly shrinking.

"Th-thank you, ladies, but I ought to be leaving—I have some . . . things that I have to do, so . . ." Remus offered, trying to stand. Val and Atropos held him down.

"No, it couldn't possibly have worked yet. You have to wait at least _five minutes_ for the stuff to work properly," Val advised. She was examining the bottle again. "You know, perhaps it's not red, but a sort of rusty maroon."

Val's lantern illuminated the hem of a yellow, polka-dotted robe coming within Remus' field of vision. "This is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet journalist. What is your involvement with this 'Humanity Movement'? What are your opinions on the Hit Wizard brutality situation?" Her voice had lost its aggravating edge, frazzling with the night.

"I'm just a volunteer," Val replied, loosening her grip on Remus. "Disaster relief, you know?"

Rita's eyes positively glowed. "You're Valerie Lynch, aren't you? The Quidditch player's wife?"

Atropos turned to face the reporter as well, and Remus used her distraction as an opportunity to escape with a hurried "Thanks." Those women . . . he wondered if any of their children had been _mothered_ to death. 

It took Remus some time to get his bearings. The night had fallen completely, lanterns like Val's creating spherical, glowing landmarks in the uncharted territory of the darkness. The alley in which he'd been lying was soon behind him, though that didn't matter if he couldn't tell what was before him.

His first stroke of navigational luck came when he smacked into either a dim streetlight or a signpost—it was hard to tell the difference without light. Rubbing his forehead and suppressing a curse, Remus walked around the pole, only to promptly stumble off the sidewalk and onto the cobbled street. He didn't bother stifling his frustration this time. A light flickered on across the street, and an aggrieved wizard shouted out his personal opinions on youngsters who banged about in the darkness. By the light from the irate man's window, Remus could now see the sign on the pole: Government Boulevard. Aha! He remembered this place now. If he went straight back, through the alley and out the other side, he'd be facing the Minister of Magic's lawn.

" . . . And good_night_!" the wizard concluded, turning off the lamp. Again, Remus was swallowed whole by blackness.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had his wand. "_Lumos_," he said, feeling very much the idiot for not thinking of this earlier.

So, where to now? Remus felt that he ought to regroup with the other protesters, but he'd have to find them first. Where _was_ everyone? He hadn't thought to ask, back with Val and Atropos, and he certainly wasn't returning to chat with them.

As he was pondering a course of action, Remus heard a familiar pair of voices.

"Sirius! Have you found Rem yet?" A pause. "Oh. No luck here, either, but the witch in charge of doctoring the victims says that he's not in with the dead."

"He wasn't around any of the fires, so . . . where _is_ he?"

"Dunno," Peter replied. A lantern came into view as its carrier turned a corner. "I hope he's all right."

Relief drowned him. "Sirius! Peter! Here I am!" Remus called, not realizing until now how anxious he had been. He all but ran to his friends, and then Sirius was laughing, clapping him on the back, and Peter was smiling, and the man across the street had turned on his light again, yelling at the three 'hooligans' to let him get a good night's sleep, but none of them cared, because everyone was _alive!_

"Rem, you had us worried! I came to help treat the injured, then Sirius told me you were missing . . . we've been looking for you for almost an hour now," Peter explained. "I'm so glad you're all right!"

"What's the situation?" Remus asked, thinking of the mention of casualties. "How . . . how many are dead?"

Silence.

Sirius' laughing eyes, bright in the light of lantern and wand, closed for a moment in remembrance. "Fifty-two. Most of them . . . they just threw us in a heap . . . some of the people on the bottom . . . they couldn't breathe. And some were beaten to death." When his eyes opened, they were bright again, but bright with fury.

Peter looked from one friend to the other, and wished that he knew what to say to make them feel less morose. He'd always distanced himself, thought their nicknames were silly (except for his own, which he actually didn't mind), had his face buried in a book or played some silent game while his friends conversed. Now, when he needed to communicate with them, he found himself without the right words. And so he turned to practicalities. "A man told me that there'd be a meeting in the Leaky Cauldron for anyone who wanted to discuss a next step," he offered. "We could go there."

Remus smiled at Peter, but it was a hollow expression that ached. He had just learned that fifty-two people had died, and all that it gained was a defeat. "Yes. We could go there." 

The Leaky Cauldron was a favorite tavern of witches and wizards from across Britain, and often its capacity had been marveled at by patrons. It seemed so small, intimate, and cozy when the only customers were a few friends sharing butterbeer or iced tea, but when a raucous party of a hundred or so wished to be accommodated, somehow it never got too crowded for one more. If the Committee for Time/Space Alteration ever got a hold of the proprietor, old Tom, he'd have a lot of explaining to do. But since Hugo Jamarcus, head of the Committee, was a dedicated regular, the Leaky Cauldron never came under scrutiny. And it was safe to say that almost everyone preferred it that way.

Certainly, Mundungus Fletcher did. Every Friday night for the last fifteen years of his life, he'd come for the drinking, the conversation, the singles, and most of all, the gambling. It was a familiar thing to see him sitting at a large, round table in the middle of the main room, a shifty smile on his face, a hand of cards held protectively close to his chest, and a small stack of knuts and sickles in front of him. Rumor had it that Mundungus knew fifty-two spells to magically rig any deck, and hadn't yet lost a game with anything at stake. (Rumor also had it that his mother had once beaten him at an extended bout of double solitaire, though no one had ever bothered to ask either of the Fletchers about the veracity of this.) 

However, there was to be no playing of card games tonight. Sitting at the bar, Mundungus morosely nursed a mug of . . . well, whatever that fellow who had been sitting here previous to him had ordered. It tasted a bit sharp, a bit sweet, and didn't seem very alcoholic. "Cheap stuff," he muttered, not much caring that what he'd have bought probably would have been yet cheaper.

It wouldn't have been so bad, Mundungus decided, if any of these protesters had been concerned with fun. They were just that many more people to be fleeced. But no, all they were talking about was how miserable they were and how much they wanted to get back at the Hit Wizards. Not a gambling soul among them. Not one who carried anything valuable that could be nicked. 

The young man sitting right next to him, for example. Very intense-looking person: dark, focused stares, a grim mouth, the whole bit. He was _reading_! In a tavern, in _the_ tavern, reading some book on the uses of different kinds of blood in potions!

And on the other side! The man looked cultured but not overly wealthy (he had some fine rings, though), detached but not unobservant, and was currently talking to . . . someone. Three someones, actually. One was a wild-looking youth, with dark shaggy hair and a grim face that might have been playful under different circumstances. Another had this _worn_ expression, almost old, though he couldn't be more than twenty. And the last was . . . "Peter Pettigrew?" 

Peter looked around, hearing his name called. It took only a split second to focus on Mundungus Fletcher. "Oh . . . hello," he replied.

"Peter! Why don't you introduce me to your friends?" Mundungus was beaming, and Peter hadn't the slightest idea why.

"Erm . . . everyone, this is Mundungus Fletcher, and, um, this is Sirius, and this is Remus, and . . . sir, what was your name again?" He faced the man that Remus had called the de facto leader of the Humanity Movement.

"Lemuel Claret." He turned around to smile at Mundungus, and there was an eerie similarity between his tight expression and the broad grin. With a start, Peter realized that both of the men had pointed teeth.

"Pleased to meet you," Mundungus answered, extending a hand to shake. "Are you with these . . . protesters?" he asked, keeping his hold on Lemuel's hand. Perhaps it had something to do with the feel of three gold rings against his skin.

"Yes." The sharp smile grew a bit. "I am a vampire."

Mundungus shrugged. He withdrew his hand. "So I suppose you wouldn't want to engage in a bit of . . . gaming?" He looked up hopefully at the three who had been watching the exchange. "Any of you?"

Lemuel waved it off. "Later. Right now, though, we need to decide when and where to congregate again. Something morale-boosting, hopefully something to increase our funds . . .. Remus, would you mind calling our people in? We ought to all have a say."

Remus nodded, and then left to mingle with the crowd. He could be seen talking to a few people at a time, gesturing back toward the little group by the bar.

"Something that would raise money, you say, and morale?" Mundungus pondered. "Like a benefit dinner, perhaps?"

Peter licked his lips. "Sounds good enough," he replied, and then called out to Tom, ordering some soup. "Sorry," he offered, as the wizened man scurried off to provide for his customer. "I just remembered that I hadn't eaten since breakfast." 

When the Humanity Movement's members had been free to mingle with the other patrons of the tavern, it was difficult to see how many of them there were. But now, with the entire group crowded into one side of the room, the sheer majority they held was easy to see. Disturbed by the nature of their erstwhile companions, most of the folk that weren't part of the Movement quickly vacated the premises. No one much minded, as it provided them with more privacy, but it _was_ dispiriting to realize that they could drive everyone away without saying a word . . ..

There were more relevant issues at hand, however. Sirius rapped an empty mug on the bar like a judge with a gavel, and the chattering and jostling subsided. Once the group was paying full attention, Lemuel Claret stood to address his fellow protesters.

Most public speakers would have begun by trying to rile the crowd, or attempting to make the disastrous strike on the Minister's lawn seem less terrible. He did neither, dealing instead with plans for the future. "We are going to continue our campaign. There are three things that we need in order to accomplish this: first, we need more supporters in higher places. If any of you know sympathetic people stationed in the Ministry or in anything else important, I ask you to try and recruit them. Secondly, we require more funding to keep our public operations in motion. On that note, let's all congratulate Urho Tuomala and his wife Iva for maintaining their successful program, Cub Aid, which provides for the children of werewolves! They've been doing a miraculous job with very little money, and all for no profit!" Lemuel paused while the Finnish couple was pressed to the fore and applauded enthusiastically. As the clapping and cheering died down, he continued, "And third, we need to hold a rally that will be _fun_. How many of us have time or money to enjoy ourselves?"

"Not enough of us!" shouted someone from the crowd, and he was backed by a muttering of agreement.

"What kind of fun are we going to have, Mr. Claret?" shouted a younger girl, holding her mother's hand. "Can it be a Quidditch game?" A nearby man shushed her, scowling.

"No Quidditch for us. It's illegal for an adult werewolf to play on a team for a professional organized sport," he growled, voice accented, but there was a wistful note to his rough outburst, as though he had once dreamed of playing the game. "Same for vampires, I think."

Lemuel Claret nodded. "So that's out. We've had a suggestion for a benefit dinner, though; do we agree on that?"

"Will there be dessert, too, Mr. Claret?" called the girl, provoking a chuckle from those standing around her.

"If we can get it, yes," he replied. There was a look of hope from some of the shabbier protesters; how long had it been since they'd had a good meal? As humans, they were allowed to carry wands and theoretically could conjure food to satisfy themselves, but the truth was that most educators were wary of accepting H.W.A.I.P.C. into their schools, and most people in the crowd simply hadn't had the education necessary for more than the simplest magic, like firing colored sparks. The concept of a huge, communal dinner was looking better and better.

It seemed that the crowd agreed, judging solely by their faces. Most had too much pride to admit how much they needed a real meal, afraid of seeming 'poor', but the others were voicing their approval, and the consensus was nevertheless apparent. He now turned his attention to the event coordination. Lemuel knew each of his followers by name, a tribute to his leadership skills, and chose several trustworthy people whom he could count on to head committees. "Olivia Shrock, I'd like for you to be in charge of finding a time and place for the event. If anyone has a potential site, bring it to her attention, all right? Matthias Librian, I'm putting you in charge of publicity. Find yourself some volunteers, and once Mrs. Shrock's group has the specifics set, you can get to work advertising. Try targeting powerful or potentially supportive people. And . . . Imiszke Innilauven, I'd like for you to deal with the planning, procuring food and help, setting up, decorating . . . is that too much work to load on you?"

"No, sir! Just let me at it!" a blond woman with thick glasses shouted, almost glowing with excitement at the responsibility she had been awarded.

"Good." And then, more to end the speech than anything else, "Is this going to be the best fête we've ever held?"

There was a pause while some members of the crowd tried to sort out what that word had meant, and whether Mr. Claret was speaking of divination, but from the scattered pockets of cheering they deduced that he had been referring to the dinner. Once that had been sorted out, a chorus of assent, clapping and foot-stomping and shouting, sparks shooting from random wands, gave him his answer.

After the noise had died down, Lemuel pulled Remus aside. "You've got the best Ministry connections of anyone in our movement; a friend in the Bureau and a friend in the Ministry. You'll handle the . . . legal affairs, all right? We don't want a repeat of today." He sighed, and Remus could tell that he had known the name of every single casualty.

"Yes, sir," Remus promised, feeling as though he ought to salute.

"Good."

As Lemuel Claret went to make good on his agreement to play Mundungus, a young man with an intense, dark glare confronted him. "Sir, it seems that you want donations for your movement. If you'd let my people come to your banquet and speak with your followers, we could offer you no less than seven hundred fifty galleons."

It took the vampire a moment to collect his thoughts. "Seven hundred . . . seven hundred _fifty_? That would—you have no idea what you—seven hundred fifty!" And perhaps they hadn't been as collected as he'd supposed. "Just who _are_ your people? Who are _you_, for that matter?"

"Severus Snape," the stranger replied. "And my people . . . you may have heard of them. We call ourselves the 'Death Eaters.'"

A/N and general thanks:

Well, this is the first real taste we have of the war with Voldemort. What will happen? Will our friend Lemuel accept the offer, or will the phenomenal bad taste in cult names put him off? Find out in the next chapter! And to those who've been reading this and wondering, "Why's this so bad? Where's the good Bureau story that _I_ was reading?" I have to say that it's been a slog. When I finished chapter four, I realized that where I wanted to be was either in the middle of chapter seven or the beginning of chapter eight, so the Writer's Block Critter attacked. And when I have writer's block, my quality suffers. That's the long and short of it.

Thanks section! Many, many thanks to: Oi! (glad you liked the beginning; try the rest!), Rage Point (wow! The amazing Rage likes my story! And you're recommending it . . . so pleased . . . and I gave you back your Lupin!), Trinity Day, Dickens (I understand your keyboard problems, got similar ones myself), Puzzler (thanks for recommending me on Sugarquill!), Episcopal Witch (yes, I agree emphatically that Remus needs media training, but . . . maybe Lily _can_ help him), Melpomene (you're so kind! And you read my unpopular Escaflowne fic, too . . . joy!), Sellinea Veradica (glad you like my writing style!), and gumdrop (James and Lily aren't worried about Remus because they don't know he's protesting. They probably think he wouldn't do something that stupid. And you like Chris! I don't, but . . . ah, well. And you're just tearing through my fics! I luv you!).


	6. Unknowingly

Lemuel considers Snape's offer – accepts

"Death Eaters? You don't mean the _cult_?" Lemuel asked, taking an involuntary step back.

Severus Snape shook his head. "That's our difficulty," he explained. "We, like you, are hated by the populace. And also like your people, we're _all_ thought to be vile and dangerous because a few can't or won't control themselves."

Mr. Claret nodded, ashamed that he had reacted on preconception—exactly the kind of thing that he was trying to campaign against. The Death Eaters were suspected culprits in mass murders of Muggle-born families, were said to be raving monsters . . . but was that any better than the reputation that vampires, werewolves, and hags had acquired? Was it any more justified? "I see what you mean. But your . . . why do you call yourselves 'Death Eaters'? The name _does_ make one think of barbaric things like killing, sacrifice and such . . .."

The young man waved off the hesitant comment. "We haven't altered the name out of respect for tradition. It's a very ancient group, with a basis in the early, barbarian ages. It was founded by Salazar Slytherin, and eradication of 'impurity' was its goal. However, we live in more . . ." and he cleared his throat meaningfully, " . . . _civilized_ times. Some dunderheads still hold the old values and methods, but the majority of us maintain the group as a chance to keep up with our acquaintances. And our leader, Mr. Riddle, is interested in getting some new recruits. When I heard about your benefit dinner, and how you'd like to have allies in high places, I thought that we could . . . collaborate. You could get money and support, and we'd have a chance to recruit. Mutually beneficial."

Lemuel was visibly relieved. But then a thought struck him, and he frowned. "Seven hundred and fifty galleons is quite a lot to pay, to get new members for a club."

With a sympathetic smile that looked as out of place on him as a whale in the desert, Severus Snape answered, "Look at your people. They _need_ the money. It would be so helpful to programs like the one for werewolf children, and you wouldn't have to do anything but let us talk. Even Death Eaters can have hearts."

Though still mildly suspicious, he was melting at the thought of what could be done with the kind of funding that was being proposed. And if the Death Eaters gave their word that they'd only _talk to_ his followers, rather than force them into membership, what harm could it do? "All right, Mr. Snape. I accept your offer." The _Death Eaters_' offer. "But . . . would you mind just going as representatives of the D.E. Club?" He offered a hand to shake.

Severus reached out a long-fingered hand, briefly clasping it around Lemuel's. His hand was cold. "Certainly," he replied, pulling away with the kind of haste that comes from dislike of physical contact. "Just send me an owl with the place and date, and we'll transfer the money to your account—you _do _have a Gringotts account, don't you?"

"Yes. And thank you very, _very_ much, Mr. Snape. You have no idea how much this will help us!" With a nod of acknowledgement from both men, they went their separate ways.

Severus Snape retrieved his book from its place on the counter and headed out into the humid summer air. He looked over his shoulder at the bright lights and cheery sounds of the tavern, and shuddered. Why on Earth had he gone in there in the first place? How could others _enjoy_ such close quarters? All those bodies, the incidental contact, the . . . the sheer concentration of _people_ made him queasy. But he still mustered a sharp laugh at the thought of how trustingly Mr. Claret had extended a hand, the excited half-grin, the confidence in his eyes. That poor man _believed_ him! And perhaps that belief stemmed from the fact that Severus had never exactly lied. The group _was_ old, and some members thought it to be outdated. And Lord Voldemort—or 'Mr. Riddle', a name that the Death Eaters had agreed to use when talking of their lord in the company of the unaffiliated—_did_ want new recruits. Faced with a choice between acceptance and denigration, where would the loyalties of vampires and werewolves lie?

"Sir, it is _you_ who have no idea how much this will help _us_." He tried a chuckle, but all that he could manage was a somewhat painful cough. Perhaps the situation wasn't quite as humorous as he'd supposed. Or perhaps he was just developing a virus. Either way, Severus slunk down the road with considerably less good cheer than he'd had.

Lily woke from her slumped position on Sirius' couch as a loud bang resounded through the house. She shook off James' loose embrace and began searching for the source of the crash. There'd been word from Patrick McKinnon, a freelance writer and a full-time Auror, that a cult was assaulting Muggle-sympathizers . . . could it be a raid? She slid her wand out of her pocket and, crouched low to avoid detection, moved toward the door.

An earsplitting laugh made her flinch, and then there was the sound of something breaking . . . perhaps it wasn't an attack, but more of a stunt, a teenage act of vandalism. Rowdy juveniles . . . that kind of person made her blood boil. A harmless, well-intentioned prank that got a laugh from everyone was all well and good, but breaking and entering to defile someone else's home . . .! Lily felt a righteous anger spurt up. With decidedly more confidence, she stood and stalked into the small foyer.

And smacked into Sirius Black.

"Sirius?!" She backed away. He'd gone and gotten himself drunk again; she could _smell_ it.

"What? Why are you here?" he asked, and his slurred voice confirmed it: Sirius was completely intoxicated. He cocked his head to the side, squinted, and then shut one eye. "Lily?"

Lily looked around, seeing the other two for the first time. Remus looked the most sober of the bunch, and even he was wobbling (though that might well have been from exhaustion). She crossed her arms. "All of you, to bed, now! I _don't want to know_ why you've been out this late, and worrying us! We were afraid you had _died_, Sirius! And I suppose you were both involved in this protest fiasco, too?" she demanded. Remus looked defiantly guilty, and Peter seemed almost ashamed. "And topping off the night with drinking, of all things! What were you _thinking_?!"

Remus volunteered a comment. "We hadn't intended to. But we ran into a friend of Peter's from work, and he kept us on for a few hours. Sirius is the only one who was drinking." Peter hiccuped. "Er, Peter was introduced to champagne," he amended.

Lily felt her ire die; she'd never been able to stay mad at any of them for long. She shook her head, and offered a smile to Remus. "I hope one of you knows a charm to cure hangovers, because Sirius will probably need it in the morning."

Sirius claimed his bed, falling onto the mattress with a thud that shook the furniture. Peter peered through the doorway for a moment before finding a blanket and curling up comfortably on the living room floor, where he surrendered to sleep.

Lily returned to her husband's arms, regretting the debacle just a bit. She hadn't meant to be so harsh. She hadn't meant to . . . whatever she hadn't meant to do was drowned in a warm clasp, the rhythm of James' heartbeat, and soon, the ebb of a soothing dream.

Watching these others make their own peace with slumber, Remus sat and stared through a window at the waning moon. It was only a sliver, too thin for most to see . . . but he knew where to look. All over the world, and particularly here, a race of monsters, a race of beasts, a race of _humans_ was glaring at this imperceptible sliver and hating all that it stood for.

"We're human. All of us. Doesn't that mean anything?" The whisper was too dim, too thin, for most to hear. But perhaps, all over the world, and particularly here, thousands of voices lifted, and whispered the same words. Perhaps, where one voice was insignificant, thousands of voices might reach _someone's_ ears, and be heeded. Perhaps . . ..

Perhaps it was just wishful thinking from an exhausted optimist.

Chris Fletchley had slept two hours. This had occurred somewhere between six and nine o'clock in the evening. She had woken with the owl from Peter Pettigrew, and that had been the first of a flood. Yelling voices were still ringing in her ears, from Howlers and the neighbors shouting about the racket . . .. It was currently seven in the morning, and she was reporting in to work at the office.

Work began at eight on Saturdays.

Sitting on the sidewalk outside the DMLE office, feeling morose and irritable and most of all tired, Chris yanked the many letters she had received last night out of her coat pocket. There had been Howlers and to spare, angry threats of legal suits or personal violence, frantic pleas to release the names of the casualties from relatives and loved ones of H.W.A.I.P.C's, suggestions that she do several physically impossible things, and worst of all: one letter praising her.

__

Dear Head of the DMLE,

I would like to congratulate you on your attitude toward these monsters. The only way to deal with such creatures is to kill them, or else they get notions of their humanity. And you did it very neatly and methodically, good job. I'll be available to help you with your next strike, and I'll be sure to bring my friends. We are very proud that you've finally seen the light on this issue.

Sincere Thanks,

Jason Macnair and friends

That letter was perhaps the most disgusting thing she had ever read. The thought that someone could feel that way about _people_ . . . feel like Marley Macmillan felt. He was exactly as prejudiced, and furthermore was sexist; he thought she was unworthy of heading the department because she was a woman. And she didn't even want to think about the Board of Judges, now presided over by that insufferably old-fashioned Margaret Blake. Not one compassionate edict since she had taken over. Their last ruling, permitting headmasters of schools to discriminate on basis of 'purity', was despicable. Other countries had those laws already; Jarvod Polovsky, Muggle-born international liaison between the British and Hungarian ministries, had been turned away from Durmstrang, and had had to travel to a smaller, less adequate school in Italy to receive his education. A brilliant man like that, denied decent teaching!

There was a bit of comfort in the nasty letters; they showed her that people still cared enough about their fellow man to speak out. Humanitarianism wasn't dead yet.

Chris Fletchley, chief officer of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, rubbed her eyes and wished for a cup of strong coffee. 

"Macmillan, you're fired."

The stout man stared in shock.

"Fired. You have two days to set your affairs in order. Then I want you out of here. You will be receiving your monthly paycheck and compensation for the lack of notice. You will not be receiving your bonus." Chris drained her mug and swiped at her bleary eyes.

"But . . . but you can't fire me!" he gasped.

"I can. You violated DMLE principles, disobeyed directives from your superior officer, and on top of that you're facing charges of murder. I suggest you hire yourself a lawyer or contact the Bureau of Loopholes, because otherwise you are likely to face up to twenty years in Azkaban."

Marley Macmillan gathered up his courage. "You can't fire me because I acted within the regulations. It specifically states that resistance to DMLE officers who are acting within their legal rights makes the resister subject to the officer's jurisdiction."

Chris glared. "You beat them for _sport_ and you know it." She leaned over the desk so that her face was inched from his. "And I know very well that I can't prove it. But it also states _in the regulations_ that the chief officer may hire or release officers on his or _her_ initiative." Sitting back down, she added, "So I'd start packing."

Time to play the sympathy card. "But I have a wife, and a young boy! Berle doesn't work, and little Matt . . . he's only four, miss!"

Clenched fists, a deep, rattling breath drawn through her teeth. "These people you killed had families, too. And you left these families with no _chance_ to pick up the pieces. _You_ can get another job. _They are DEAD_."

She would not back down on this issue. Marley looked away. "I'll go. I don't need women like you breathing down my neck." He stood, and turned to go. She stopped him.

"Badge, Marley." He glared. "_Badge._" Reluctantly, he unpinned the thing and threw it at her. It knocked the coffee mug to the floor, where it shattered. Then Marley Macmillan walked out of the office for the last time.

Good. That was over with. Now, on to cleaning up the mess that Macmillan had created. "_Reparo_." The coffee cup became whole again. And now, on to his _other_ mess. The one that no mere spell could fix.

Chris reached into one of the drawers of her desk, withdrew a bit of powder, and threw it in the office fireplace. "Cleatus Sullivan!" she shouted. A man appeared in the fireplace, spinning around and coming to a stop facing her. He coughed.

"I wish you wouldn't do that, Christine," he gasped. "The ashes . . . make it hard to breathe." More coughing ensued.

"You heard about what happened last night."

"Yes, I have," Cleatus answered. "Terrible muddle, I'm glad _I_ don't have to fix it." He saw her uncomfortable expression. "I have to fix it, don't I." Chris nodded. He uttered a colorful phrase or two. "Well, best get to work, then. Do you know the bloke who was in charge of that strike?"

"Marley Macmillan. I fired him."

"That's good, but I meant the protest. You'll have to publicly apologize to this fellow first."

Which would be fine, if she knew the man. "I have to _find_ him first. I don't know who he is."

Cleatus threw up his hands in exasperation. "You're just intolerable, Christine. What do you expect me to do? Put memory charms on everyone who knows about the incident? Beg on hands and knees to the world to forgive us, please? If you don't even know the _name_, how can you expect me to help you?"

"Find out. I'm assigning you to fix this, however you manage to accomplish it." Cleatus sighed. "And don't give me that. I know you like investigative work. Here's a chance to get on the inside, find a bit of information, and relay it back to me. Investigation at its finest."

He tried, and failed, to hide a smile. "It _will_ be rather interesting, won't it? I've always wanted to meet vampires and werewolves and such." This time, his efforts to look serious were more successful. "But I'll need you to pull your end of this. I can't do it alone, and _you'll_ have to bother with the media and arranging the talk and rubbish like that. It should be a ghastly amount of work, so I'll get a friend of mine to help you at it. His name is Robert Finch." Mr. Sullivan saluted, and made a move toward the door.

"What, don't you want to travel by fireplace again?" Chris asked, teasing.

Cleatus brushed at the ash that still clung to his robes. "I think I've been damaged enough, thank you. Good day, Miss Fletchley."

The relief that Chris felt at having someone else doing this job was smothering. Cleatus was good at what he did, and more importantly, could be depended upon.

Things were looking up at last.

A/N and thanks

All right, this one was also very difficult, and so is of questionable quality. I think I'm overusing my original characters, but these scenes are essential to the plot. The wheels are in motion, and _now_ things are going to start cooking. Well, maybe not until chapter eight. Oh, the place I want to be? I think it might be at the beginning of chapter nine now, seeing as I've got a lot of items to get out of the way before I reach that point. Credit to Trepidatio for the quote in the Lemuel/Severus discussion: "Would you mind just going as members of the D.E. Club?" Final comment: I personally think that the scene with the whispers and the moon was a bit too philosophical for this story, as it's not really an angsty story, but I _did_ like it, so it stayed.

Thanks and hugs to my wonderful, dedicated reviewers! Trinity Day (you requested more James and Lily, I gave you more . . . well, Lily!), Trepidatio (again, thanks for the quote!), Puzzler (glad you liked the cliffhanger!), Episcopal Witch (dead right on the 'social outcast recruiting' thing! And yep, it was Poppy Pomfrey. Oooh, cameo!), Sellinea Veradica (the best compliment I have ever received. You have the faith to believe that I actually know where I'm going. I was so touched), magical*little*me (I love Peter. I write him frequently), and Melpomene (the meeting was the one scene that I rewrote a million or so times. Glad you liked the final version! And Lemuel's the only OC I've ever had that I came close to liking . . . I may have to make him less likeable . . .. And slogging isn't really in the story, but in the time it takes me to write it. ForEVER!). Thanks, everyone!


	7. Blood and Tears

Died Without a NAME

Cleatus paced out of the office, contemplating his mission and planning a course of action. "Who'd know the man in charge of all this?" he asked himself, thinking about the reports he'd heard. After being forcefully removed from the Minister's lawn, many of the protestors had supposedly gone to the Leaky Cauldron to regroup. While he had no way of determining whether this information was just hearsay or not, it could not be ruled out as a lead.

And then there were the DMLE files, which listed every possibly relevant fact about any witch or wizard currently residing in Britain. He could look up all registered H.W.A.I.P.C. and question them individually. A tedious procedure, but sure to turn up results if he kept at it long enough.

A commotion in an adjacent hallway interrupted his train of thought. He turned, and watched in horrified fascination as a rangy, wiry man struggled against four uniformed DMLE officers. The man shouted Spanish obscenities, fighting with tooth and nail—literally. 

Cleatus recovered from his initial shock and cast the first spell that came to mind: "_Petrificus Totalus!_" The stranger's screech was cut off abruptly as he stiffened and fell forward. Cleatus winced at the unnatural _crunch_ of nose smashing against floor.

"Thanks, mate," puffed a wizard, leaning against a wall. "Thought he'd had us there. And you're . . . Mr. Southampton?" he guessed, frowning as he tried to place the face.

"Sullivan. Why were you bringing him in?" Cleatus surveyed the rather abashed quartet, all of them red in the face and sporting bruises and swellings. "And was it worth this?"

"He was inciting a riot," replied the sole woman. "Stirring up a bunch of teenage yahoos . . . good job we got him when we did, or else there'd be more than one to bring in." She dabbed at her split lip with a handkerchief. "Honestly, it's not _our_ fault that the Hit Wizards handled the situation tactlessly!"

With new interest, Cleatus examined the miscreant. Unabashed hazel eyes flashed up at him. "So . . . I take it he's on the side of the H.W.A.I.P.C?"

"Yes, indeed. His name is Carlos Leone—he's a registered werewolf." The man directed a kick at the prone body, and received a muted, semi-feral growl from his victim. "Hey, wolf, d'you reckon you'd like a beating like you gave us?"

This 'Carlos Leone' was a potential source of information, then. Cleatus could _not_ allow harm to befall him, if he wanted answers. "Let's not have any baiting. May I question him?"

The woman glanced down at Carlos, skittish, as though he might leap up and tear her throat out at any moment. "Can you handle him?"

"I think I can," Cleatus replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. He didn't want to sound too confident, lest Carlos decide he was a threat and not a benefactor. "Why don't you go and write him a warning?"

All four openly gaped. "After . . . after he _assaulted officers_ like that . . . you just want to give him a _warning_?!"

Attempting a reasonable tone, Cleatus pulled Carlos's justification out of thin air. "I'm sure he saw it as self-defense. It's a first offense, isn't it?"

With a shrug, a wizard replied, "Dunno. It's his first offense on British territory; he's not native. I'd have to check with the Spanish DMLE to find out whether he's a repeat offender." He caught the patient, determined look in Cleatus' mild eyes, a look that said in quite simple terms that Mr. Sullivan would wait as long as it took, but in the end he'd get what he wanted. Unsettled, he continued awkwardly, "I . . . I should do that now, shouldn't I? Be seeing you . . . when I'm done?" He herded his partners away, and Cleatus was left alone with Carlos.

He knelt beside the werewolf and gently turned him over. As he'd suspected, Carlos's nose was broken. "I'm honestly sorry I had to do that. I'll take this spell off, and then I'll just ask you a few questions, all right?" Carlos blinked. Cleatus took that as an affirmative gesture.

The second the curse was off, Carlos leapt to his feet and shoved Cleatus against the wall. "_Usted hijo de una perra!_"

Two men made their way down Diagon Alley. They did not enter any of the shops, nor did they pause to examine the displays. Instead, they stopped at the most unassuming building on the street, the three-story, dingy structure sandwiched between Brookhaven's Book Haven and a secondhand garment shop. Words in gold leaf on the window stated that this was the Bureau of Loopholes' London office.

Peter unlocked the door, motioning for Remus to follow him in. "Doesn't look like much, does it?" he whispered, a faint grin touching his face. "Not like a famous place at all."

"Do they all look like this?"

"Just this one. Ms. Sheridan hates to look grand." He pocketed the key and made his way toward the stairs.

Remus peered around, taking in the shabby state of the foyer. Not a speck of dust anywhere, not a bit of clutter, but it all looked . . . old. Disused, almost. "She doesn't need to worry about _that_." The stairs creaked underfoot.

On the second floor, Peter once again took out the key and fitted it into another door, this one with a nameplate reading 'Peter K. Pettigrew, Co-director.' "I don't use this office a lot—it's easier to just mill around with everyone else—but I thought we might want some peace while we look for information."

This room was literally walled with filing cabinets. Each drawer was labeled in Peter's neat handwriting, though the labels were so obscure that surely Peter was the only one who knew what was where. A desk and chair occupied the center of the room, both painstakingly clean.

When Remus looked again at his friend, the other man seemed to have broken out in folders, with at least fourteen of them in his arms. Peter set the lot of them down on the table and examined the stack. "This should do." He gestured to his pile. "Take a folder, will you? Whichever you like." A little bewildered, Remus took the top folder and flipped it open.

He had chosen a folder containing the legal history of H.W.A.I.P.C.

Eyes fluttered across the words, automatically translating the official language into simpler phrases. _We shall make no law abridging a wizard's right to destroy a werewolf if said werewolf constitutes a threat . . .. A vampire or his family may not immigrate to Great Britain . . .. Hereafter, any hag found with a child in her possession shall be assumed to have malicious intent . . .. _And these laws had been functioning until 1933, when . . . _The Board of Judges concludes that no action may be taken against humans with accidentally-inflicted preternatural conditions unless a certifiable offense has been committed by them; therefore, we repeal Sections 3, 12, and 14, as well as Acts 9, 34, 37, 61, and 50-57._ Remus blinked, and looked up. He had thought _he_ was living in prejudiced times . . . he'd taken for granted some of the freedoms he _did_ have.

"Did you find something?" Peter asked, shutting his folder with a thump.

"I . . . I found a lot, but . . . not what we wanted." He once again bent over the papers. If there was a regulation that would legalize peaceful protest and congregation on the part of his people, it would be past this point.

__

Due to the outstanding death rate of its pupils, Winston Hall Werewolf Academy shall no longer enforce its 'red collar' policy . . .. "I've got it!" Lupin glanced over at Peter, who elaborated, "It's right here in the IAR! 'Citizens of the wizarding community retain the right to congregate in a wizarding locale with the explicit permission of the owner, and this right shall not be infringed.'" He put the folder away. "So that's legal matters sorted out. As H.W.A.I.P.C, you're classified as citizens of the wizarding community, and that means they can't evict you without violating the IAR—that's Inalienable Rights," he clarified.

While Peter filed his folders away, Remus glanced down at the papers he still held. "Do you know anything about Winston Hall Werewolf Academy?" he queried.

Peter pried the manila folder out of Remus' hands. "Not much. I think we went over it in History of Magic . . . it was the first all-werewolf school in the world. The students had to wear read collars from their first day on through the rest of their lives." He made an indignant noise. "It indicated a magically educated werewolf, and was supposed to be a warning to the community. It warned the community, all right—students were killed off right and left." With a metallic noise, the last drawer slammed shut. "Ready to head out? I don't have to stay here; I've got weekends off."

"All right."

They left the office, locking the door behind them. But they didn't get far. "Colleen's in," Peter remarked, noticing the light that escaped through the crack under her door. "I'll introduce you to her." He knocked politely, and then opened the door.

Colleen Sheridan was not at all what Remus had imagined. She looked to be about forty or fifty, with thick brown hair—going to grey in places—pulled into a loose bun, and sharp eyes. Her mouth, tugged down around the corners, hinted at a sour disposition, but the crow's-feet wrinkles at the corners of her eyes belied that impression. She rested her sharp chin on a bony hand, looked up at Peter, and winked. "Enjoying your work-free day?" Her harsh voice somehow resonated with good humor.

"Yes, Ma'am," Peter answered. "This is my friend, Remus Lupin." Colleen squinted at him, and he got the impression that she needed glasses. At last, she nodded.

"Good. What are you doing here? We're not open 'til nine, and you aren't working today." She sat back in the chair, crossing her arms.

Peter's smile was wan; he'd probably been caught at such antics before. "We were looking up some regulations for the H.W.A.I.P.C. They want to hold a benefit dinner, and they don't want a repeat of yesterday." At the mention of the tragedy—there was no other word for it—the frown hinted at by Colleen's dour mouth became visible.

"I don't want yesterday to repeat itself, either," she grated, cracking her knuckles. "I've been letting the Ministry walk all over me because I don't want to be shut down, but I will _not_ let this keep happening. You can tell whoever's in charge that I will be donating both my money and my time to this cause. _Publicly_." Colleen leaned forward again, with a conspiratorial whisper and wink. "And the Ministry can kiss my rump if they don't like it."

"_Estúpido policía!_" A knife was very suddenly pressed to Cleatus' neck. He could feel it quivering in a hand that shook with anger. Speaking—just a slight movement of the throat—might well be fatal.

And, in a secret, forbidden place, Cleatus was absolutely thrilled.

Carlos must have sensed an unfamiliar quality in his victim's lack of reaction. He frowned, and exhaled a rush of meat-smelling breath. He turned the knife, running the flat of the blade down the officer's neck. A sliver of flesh was sliced away. Deliberation in every movement, Carlos pulled his weapon away and smiled with yellowed teeth. _"Habla inglés?"_ Cleatus whispered.

__

"Si." The werewolf laughed. "What do you want, English?" he mocked. "_Señor_ Sullivan."

"First, are you a member of the Humanity Movement?" The businesslike question didn't change Carlos's feral demeanor at all.

"I am. I came from Barcelona to protest. And?" His defiance of authority was a blatant challenge.

"And do you know your leader's name?"

Carlos touched the blood streaming from his nose—he had only just realized that it was broken. He held up his bloodied fingers as though they were marks of honor. "I do." He backed away, allowing Cleatus to straighten up.

A pause followed. "Well?" Cleatus prompted.

"Well what?" The meaningful look was met with a glare. "How stupid do you think I am, English? Do you think I would tell you, get him arrested? I am not so stupid as that." Carlos brushed at his nose again, smearing a bloody line across his right cheek, and then wiped his hand on Cleatus' shirt. "Have a good day, English." The werewolf turned to go.

"Wait!" Cleatus seized Carlos's shoulder. Annoyed, the Spaniard spun, and the knife was once again out and threatening.

"I will _not_ tell you, English. Stop wasting your time."

"I can have you jailed."

"I can have you dead."

Both paused to consider. Cleatus knew not to push his luck, but he _had _to know who was in charge of the protest, and there was a certain . . . thrill to facing death. He had nothing to gain if he let Carlos go, and everything to lose. Furthermore, he was intrigued. Carlos, on the other hand, just wanted to get out of the place. Intimidation didn't work. And he truly didn't want to kill this man. But he was running out of both choices and patience.

Carlos broke the silence. "Why do you want to know?"

At last, a rational response! "Christine Fletchley would like to arrange a public apology."

Carlos scowled and pushed the hand off his shoulder. "She had better," he growled. "I suppose she does not care about the dead. I suppose she knows not one name. Does she apologize to the family of Angelo Garcia? Or the family of Logan Dane? And what about the people who joined the protest because they cared about their fellow men, the _normal_ witches and wizards? How will she tell Zimmer Thyret's children that their father was killed by _her men_? Does she care that these fifty-two people _died without names? _No," he broke off, bitter and spiteful, but victorious, "No, she only cares that her good _name_ is tarnished."

Cleatus drew himself up indignantly, defending his friend and superior officer. "Christine cares more than—"

"_She does not!_" Carlos struck Cleatus across the face and knocked him to the floor. "_She does not care!_ Tell her that she can make her apologies to Lemuel Claret until the day she dies, but she will _never care_. Tell me, English, did she cry when she heard what had happened? Did she cry?" he crowed, kicking at the Englishman's chest. "Answer!"

"I do not know. Christine does not cry often." Cleatus clutched his ribs and made an attempt to stand.

"Stay down! And she _will_ cry often." Carlos grinned, the triumphant look of one who whose thirst for vengeance would soon be quenched. "She _will_ cry when it is her people who die. You will _all_ cry." He laughed, laughed like one possessed, cackled and giggled until tears came to his eyes. And then he touched a finger to the liquid and wiped it on Cleatus' shirt. "Now you are stained in my blood _and_ my tears." He glanced down at the officer, noticed the nick where his knife had sliced flesh. "And your blood as well."

With a sardonic salute, Carlos once again turned away. Cleatus didn't try to stop him. He had the information he wanted.

Once the werewolf was gone, Cleatus sighed and stood. "Well, that was odd," he remarked, making his way toward Christine's office to deliver his report. "Lemuel Claret. I've _heard _that name. The vampire bloke from . . . Japan?" he mused. "Not a Japanese name, though; perhaps I'm wrong."

Inside, he was reliving the tableau, relishing every harrowing moment. _This _was the kind of thing he had entered the DMLE to do! Threats of murder, violence, criminals . . . it was all such heady stuff. Nothing at all like his usual work, which took place behind a desk or amid files. _This_ was what being alive was about—what was life without the danger of death? The blood, though . . . Carlos's comments about blood had unnerved him. "How much blood will be shed before this is over?"

He absently stroked the stinging cut.

Lucius Malfoy was perhaps not the most patient person in the world. He certainly wasn't the most humanitarian. But, by and large, he considered himself to be a good judge of people. Which led him to wonder how he'd ever perceived Severus Snape as a reasonable, levelheaded man. "You offered . . . you offered seven hundred and fifty galleons to a pack of _werewolves_?" he demanded.

Severus looked down. "Werewolves, vampires, and hags. Social outcasts, full of feelings of anger toward the Ministry. Perfect recruits," he muttered.

Lucius leaned over his desk, resting his forehead on the heel of his hand. He closed his eyes in defeat. "Fine. Werewolves, _vampires_, and hags. I've explained this before—I will _not_ deal with those people."

"But I thought Lord Voldemort would be—"

"Be _what_?! Be _pleased_ with you? Think you showed remarkable initiative?" Lucius brought his other hand up, cradling his head as though afraid it would break.

"No. I thought he would be interested. Our Lord is never _pleased_, and certainly not by initiative. He wants his servants to be just that—servile, dumbly loyal to him. What was the code we agreed on?" Severus asked, crossing his arms.

Lucius would have rolled his eyes, had they not been shut. "'Don't distinguish yourself, don't reveal our true identity, and _don't_ fail the Dark Lord.'" That was the thing about being a Death Eater in these times: you had immeasurable chance for advancement, power beyond belief . . . provided you never put a toe out of line.

"Exactly. If all of us contributed—and most of the Death Eaters are from wealthy families; it should be no trouble at all—to pay Lemuel Claret his seven hundred and fifty galleons, and we brought the suggestion to our Lord as a group . . .." Severus trailed off, letting his comrade fill the blank space with whatever he wanted.

"_Or_ we could suggest it to him, donate our money, and come out of this banquet empty-handed. Failure. It's too great a risk." Lucius stood from his office chair and began to pace the room. His forest-green carpet had a worn track down the center from years of this habit.

"Then we could go to the banquet _first_, and _then_ pay Claret, and _then_ tell Lord Voldemort that we have new recruits." Before the other man could point out the flaws in that plan, Severus had already discounted it. "No, the whole plot stinks of _initiative_. We'd be punished for not telling him before we began this . . . endeavor. What we _really_ need," he decided, "is a scapegoat. Someone expendable, ambitious enough to have seized the chance, power-hungry enough to _want_ to distinguish himself . . .." Snape considered the possibilities. "Macnair would fit that description."

"_No_. Macnair _hates_ the H.W.A.I.P.C. He would never offer to help them." The peculiar venom in Lucius' voice spoke of shared hatred on such a personal level that it was almost ingrained in his soul.

"Avery, then. Smarmy man, always so eager to please . . .." Severus smirked. "And every time, he fails. Stupid. Avery doesn't know when to leave well enough alone."

Lucius paused in his pacing. "Avery. Yes, he's precisely the one we want." He sat again, but now his grey eyes practically crackled with possibilities.

"So I'll owl him tonight. And I would like for you to find out when this 'benefit dinner' is being held." Lucius clenched a fist, but did not comment. "Goodbye, Lucius Malfoy." Perhaps he had imagined it, but there seemed to be a derisive accent on the surname.

Most of the other Death Eaters had no idea why Lucius hated vampires with such horrible passion. Only Severus Snape, his protégé, ally, and sometime friend, knew the truth.

Only Severus Snape knew that Lucius' estranged father was a vampire.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

****

Author's note: This has to be the worst case of writer's block yet in this particular story. It's been forever since I updated. But then Carlos decided to jump into the fic, and then the whole thing sort of wrote itself. So I went with it. (A note on Carlos Leone—his original name was Lupe Grey, but I changed it. Trepidatio was the swing vote; I'd been leaning toward changing the name throughout the fic, but when she mentioned that it was a bit much, I decided to change it.) You also may have noticed that this chapter was darker than the previous six. No, the whole story won't be dark and depressing from this point on. It's just this part. Anyway, while this might not be an exciting chapter, or even particularly interesting, trust me, it's pivotal. Stay tuned, and all shall be revealed.

****

Thanks section!

Thanks to: BeckySharp (specific outcomes? Ooh, if you want that, just wait until _later_!), Weaver (more Sirius forthcoming--sorry he didn't feature much in this part), Episcopal Witch (glad you like my OC's; with so few characters from the period around, I need lots of them to cover the sprawling plot), Rage Point (my longest review ever! I love you! And the image of the D.E. Club as Possum Lodge . . . priceless. No, darling Remus doesn't feature prominently so far, and that confuses me, but I think he'll get a more important part at a later date), magical*little*me (your opinion of Chris bolsters my confidence _sooo_ much!), Moon (you've got it spot on! I love your fics; it's a treat to have you reading mine!), CatFish (thanks! I know what ya mean about late-night reading/reviewing . . .), Melpomene (your waiting is over . . . glad? And I liked your slurred words!), Puzzler (hope you didn't get in trouble . . . ouch! I have, at times. And I'm so glad you like Lemuel), Magic Gerbil (Aidan is Valerie's brother, yes, but her son--who had only a mention--is also named Aidan, as will be apparent later. And Rita on the side of good? Not likely. Just wait. Just wait), Aira (actually, I've planned for that, too. Voldemort was running around for quite some time without followers, and it's only just now that the Death Eaters have joined him. Quite a story in here . . . all will be revealed in time), Figaro (aww . . . I'm blushing!), TL (actually, she's not Justin's mom. Justin's Muggle-born, remember? She's . . . well, I suppose you'd call her his half-aunt), Sellinea Veradica (so glad you're hooked!), and lyoung (it's just fantastic that you like it! And sorry for that asinine e-mail; I was being stupid, and didn't recognize you). Here's hoping you liked this chapter, and will read forthcoming ones!


	8. Bloody Kobe

Sirius Black sprinted up the stairs as though chased with an axe. The railings were optional. Walls were annoyances. People in his way were _obstacles_, and were stiff-armed to the side accordingly. He dismissed the pounding aftereffects of a hangover as just another thing that was trying to prevent him from getting to work on time.

Sirius worked with the Committee for Experimental Charms and Curses. Unless you fancied having your legs switched with your arms, punctuality was mandatory.

He stumbled out of the stairwell, regained his balance in a few lunging steps, and tore past the closed doors of the upper hallway. His watch's second hand ticked inexorably toward the twelve, and Sirius threw his last ounce of speed into a dive through room 521's doorway . . .

. . . and into his seat.

Mackenzie Callahan, head of this branch of the Committee, frowned at the disheveled, panting man, but deigned a comment unnecessary. Sirius was, inexplicably, almost three seconds early.

"If we're through with bouncing into doors, I'll read out your assignments for the day," he droned, somehow contriving to flatten his Irish lilt into a paradigm of dullness. "McFadden, you will be perfecting the follicle-modifying charm. Let Mr. Kantes' state be an, ahem, example." The eyes of every witch and wizard turned toward Johan Kantes, whose head was bald and sporting a mass of iridescent scales. The scales hadn't been part of the original plan. "Rabedeau, you are to help Kantes in finding a descaling charm that has an effect on human heads. Clouden, Pär, and Black, you will continue your work on a more convenient form of a long-distance communication spell." Sirius flashed a thumbs-up at Yariv Pär, who grinned back. Mr. Callahan rolled his eyes and, by strength of condescension, the rest of his head as well. "Leonhart, you will alter the aroma of your perfume charm."

"But sir, it has eliminated the bad odors of my test subject," she argued. Natasha Stanislav, the unfortunate victim of her charm, glared.

"It has _also_ eliminated every _other_ odor of the test subject!" Natasha hissed, and pulled a small crystal bottle of perfume from her purse. She removed the cap and sprayed a mist of the stuff at her face. Sirius caught a brief whiff of something overpoweringly sweet before it disappeared into a black hole of smell.

"We all know, Mrs. Stanislav. Miss Leonhart will also work on a countercharm. Stanislav, you will be devising an eyeliner charm. And Ingenborg . . .." He paused. "Where is Miss Olga Ingenborg?"

Yariv Pär tried unsuccessfully to hide a snigger. Olga was _late_. Chances were high that Olga would be leaving work with a bald head, or only audible if you stood twenty feet away, or reeking of roses. Mackenzie Callahan saw no point in wasting a perfectly good chance to make an example.

"When Miss Ingenborg chooses to grace us with her presence, we will find some suitable task for her. Until then, I suggest you all go to your labs." With a particularly dull glare from his particularly dull, hooded eyes, he indicated that they were already a nanosecond later than he'd like them to be.

Yariv slid out of his seat and hurried over to Sirius' side. "I've had this fascinating idea! Perhaps we could bewitch some objects . . . blocks of wood, maybe . . . so that we could talk _into_ them, and the sound could carry over into another block of wood that someone else was holding!"

Sirius frowned. "Blocks of wood?" Yariv possibly suffered from some northern form of psychosis. "How would the sound carry between the blocks of wood, exactly?"

Waldenius Clouden limped over to the conference room's door (where he'd leaned his walking stick) and followed his partners out and down the hall. "Maybe some bits of string? Dead easy, bewitching string. I once had a rope that I'd coil around me shoulders, and it'd move like a snake when me mum came into the room."

"What happened to the string?" Yariv asked. He stopped at their lab's door, took out a keyring, and got the door unlocked. He then opened it for the older man and kicked a cardboard box out of the way; its contents, which were mainly canned drinks from the vending machine downstairs, clanked and rolled across the floor.

"It tried to choke me one day, and I beat it to death with me stick," Waldenius declared proudly. "Might we have some blocks of wood and string lying about?"

Sirius swept a clutter of notes off of their counter and opened the lab's main cabinet. It contained a few more notes, a broken quill pen, two pots of ink, a broken wand that was oozing green liquids across the shelf, five bottles, a ruler, a book, scissors, a knut, and . . . "We've got acres of string, but no blocks of wood to speak of."

Yariv picked up a can of root beer from the floor, checked it carefully for signs of tamper, and then wiggled the tab back and forth. "There's got to be something else we can use." He finally succeeded in breaking it open and gulped down about half of the can. "Here, have a root beer--it's sort of flat and warm, but they never expire."

Sirius stooped to pick up two cans, then passed one to Waldenius. "Got to be careful about your back, old man."

"Old? I'm seventy-three!" He reached over and whacked Sirius with his cane. "What else could we speak into?" Thoughtfully, the man seated himself on a cardboard box and sipped at the root beer.

Sloshing the dregs of the drink around, Sirius frowned. "Have you ever stood under a metal bridge and talked? Or in a really big pipe?"

Yariv nodded, regarding his can with considerably more interest. "It echoed a lot."

"And see, there's this convenient tab, and it has a hole right here . . .." Sirius threaded the string through the tab with utmost care, and tied it in a neat, tight knot. Yariv cut the string about twelve meters down and began tying the end of it to his tab.

Waldenius, having grasped the idea, cut off another six meters of string and tied one end to his own empty can. He then tied the other end of the string to the center of Yariv and Sirius' string.

"Dead easy, bewitching string. We want the sound to carry down it . . . _Sonoritwinus_!" called the old man, pointing his wand at the string as he shouted the patently improvised spell. "And now you get to the hall, and I'll stand in here . . . shut the door behind you, boys . . .."

Sirius and Yariv stepped outside, moving as far apart as the string and the constraints of the hallway would allow. Soon, Yariv heard Waldenius' voice through the can.

"D'you hear me?"

"I do! I do! Sirius, we've done it!" Yariv cried, throwing his can in the air. It clinked on the ceiling. Sirius felt like screaming as well. "And maybe we can . . . trap a fairy in the can, and it'd start shrilling when someone was trying to talk through the can with you . . .."

A door opened, and Hildegard Leonhart poked her head out. "What's the shouting about?"

"We've done it! Long-distance communication, _without_ the fireplace!" Sirius waved the can at her, and she sighed theatrically.

"Congratulations, boys. You've succeeded in reinventing the tin-can phone."

Lucius Malfoy was the kind of man who made you sit up very straight when he passed. He exuded menace, not by any manner of dress or bearing but simply by virtue of existing. It was not at all a shock that he lived in a mansion with imposing gothic architecture. His wealth was obvious. Even his nearly-Aryan appearance hinted at an opulence gained by not entirely moral means. Taking all of this into consideration, it was not surprising that he was meeting the henchmen of a man known as 'The Dark Lord'. Though it might have been more according to protocol if they had been meeting somewhere a bit more atmospheric.

"Welcome to Mario's Italian Eatery, spaghetti with a smile. May I take your order?" The waitress' voice meandered between abject boredom, complete disinterest, and gum-chewing monotony. She had an American accent that made Avery wince, and her chewing put Lucius in mind of a cow.

Severus Snape raised a hand. "Just iced tea," he volunteered, and picked at his uncomfortable Muggle suit. It had been Lucius' idea to meet here, and so there was probably some kind of rationale for the decision, but that didn't make him feel any more charitable toward the tweed trousers and coat.

"Coffee. Black. Caffeine. And the Fettuccini Alfredo," Malfoy added. Snape noticed with annoyance that he was wearing a silk shirt and loose cotton trousers--probably much more comfortable, and certainly less bloody embarrassing than tweed.

"What's your soup of the day?" Avery asked, shifting in the seat. His orange polyester suit was an eyesore in the dim restaurant. The waitress chewed lazily for a moment, then looked at her order pad.

"Minestrone." Chew, chew.

"I'll have that, then . . . and some red wine, please."

"Any kind you want?" She shifted her gum to the other side of her mouth.

"Merlot."

"We don't got it."

Avery paused, looking at the others. "Um, Chianti, then." Scribbling on the order pad ensued.

"I got you as an iced tea for you's in the tweed, black caff and Fettuccini Alfredo for you's in black, and minestrone and a Chianti for you's in orange."

"That's right. Now, if you would be so kind . . .?" It would have been expected for 'if you would be so kind' to sound similar to 'if you'd prefer not to be dismembered', but there was only polite sincerity in Lucius' voice. He folded his menu and handed it to her, gesturing for the others to follow suit.

"Gotcha." The waitress meandered toward the kitchen, and they watched her until she was out of earshot.

Snape was the first to speak. "Why a Muggle restaurant?"

Lucius' disdainful glance toured the room, taking in the plastic booths and uncleared tables, the dim lights and the garish paintings on the walls, and above all the lack of patronage. "Do you want someone to overhear us and understand what we're talking about?"

"Why not your study, then?" Avery asked, leaning over the table with his hands clasped under his chin.

"Because we're meeting someone else, Avery. Someone who might help you with your . . . situation."

"My situation?"

"With Lord Voldemort, of course." Avery twitched at the mention of the name. Even Death Eaters used euphemisms whenever possible. "Or don't you remember the fallout after you--"

"I remember!" Avery carefully laid his napkin on his lap and arranged his silverware around his plate. "Don't remind me. How . . . how can this man help me?" And then a thought struck him. "Why are you helping me? What will you get out of this?"

Lucius and Severus exchanged a glance. This had been a spur-of-the-moment meeting with a hasty plan behind it; it wouldn't work at all if their contact in the DMLE were wrong or lying. They hadn't thought to come up with a motive for helping Avery. "We're helping you because we'd like a favor in return. We may need it at some later time."

Avery nodded and ran a hand through his receding hair. He was vain, and fretted over the scalp that was appearing like sand at low tide. "I hope you can help me. If you get me back in our Lord's good graces, you can have almost any favor you want."

The waitress returned with their drinks, tossing some packets of sugar and a straw down in front of Snape. He stared at the jaunty lemon slice that lounged on the edge of the glass with distaste, then picked up a packet of sugar, tearing the top off and sprinkling it in his tea. The ice in the glass might have melted under his glare.

The bell over the door tinkled, and a man stalked in. He wore his anger like a sandwich board. After a quick survey of the mostly empty room, his eyes flashed to the three men in their booth. "Malfoy? Which man is Malfoy?" Lucius lifted his coffee in a mock-salute. "Why did you send for me? I need to talk to Mr. Claret. I must hurry."

Lucius turned to Avery. "This man is a werewolf. He is part of a movement for werewolf . . . and vampire . . . rights, and they have graciously invited our, hmm, club to a banquet in the near future." He noticed the man's broken nose. "However did you do that?"

Carlos Leone's upper lip lifted, baring his teeth. His eyes were cruel with hatred. "Your DMLE hurt me for trying to tell others what was done to us. There are other bruises and scars as well. Blood and tears shed! _Mataron a mi gente_!" He growled as he spoke, and his strong Spanish accent made the words almost unintelligible, but his fury carried. Even as his last word barked into the silence of the room, he seethed in the pure language of the trapped beast.

Snape mixed the sugar into his tea with his straw. "We can help you. We in the, er, D.E. Club have money and influence." He glanced at Avery and then back at Carlos, hoping that the other man would see what he had seen in the Leaky Cauldron last night.

And he could see it. He could see the lean muscles on the gaunt man, the violence, the hatred of the government. The raw _potential_. "Are there many of you who feel this way? It's an outrage that you and your kin should be so mistreated!" Avery tried an indignant expression in hopes that it would elicit a response.

"Many of us! Diego and I know more than fifty in Britain. More than that in Spain!" He grinned, but the hatred was still in his eyes. "We are peaceful, for now. But we could be strong if we chose." The smile was suddenly canny. "Why you want me? For a cause? For a _charity_? You English feel guilty. You saw how your men killed us. You want to make me your _charity_?"

"No, not at all. We want to help you. You have good reason to be angry at our government--look at what it's done to you!--and we want you to be able to gain those civil rights you want. You could go far toward achieving your goals, and our leader can help all of you. We'll have a representative from the D.E. Club at the banquet to talk to you and anyone else who feels the same way. Be sure to bring your supporters--we'd like to help as many as we can." If Carlos was a wolf at bay, Lucius was the calm, unblinking, expressionless snake.

Carlos nodded slowly. He was a dangerous man, and perhaps he had picked up the thinly veiled subtext in Lucius' careful words. "I will tell them about your offer. Thank you. I must go now--I need to talk to Mr. Claret. But thank you." He walked away and out the door, more thoughtful than he had been upon entering.

As one, Lucius and Severus turned to Avery, who was grinning like an utter fool. "That's how we can help you. More than fifty recruits for the Dark Lord, strong, dangerous, and with nothing to lose. All yours. All of the credit can be yours. But there is a price." Lucius waited a moment for effect. "Seven hundred and fifty galleons, payable to Lemuel Claret's Gringotts account."

Avery looked back and forth between the men, but the glee was still there. "Would that count as my favor to you?"

Another glance exchanged. "Fine." Severus shook Avery's hand. "I hope you realize how grateful you should be."

The waitress moseyed out of the kitchen, carrying a food-laden tray. "Who was yelling in Spanish back there? Brought me right back to Florida for a second." There were palm trees and sunshine in her voice when she spoke again. "Who ordered minestrone?" 

Todd and Sevigny Rental Offices was a four-story building in the center of Muggle London's least prosperous business district. The cement bricks were stained with soot from the heating furnace's chimney and rust from the metal window frames. Letters over the door stated that this was "odd and Sevy Retal fices"; the rest of the letters had been stolen at some point and never replaced. No respectable person would have been caught dead within forty meters of the place.

Fortunately, respectability wasn't important to Remus Lupin or Peter Pettigrew. They strode down the sidewalk, inconspicuous in Muggle short-sleeved shirts and denim trousers, headed to Todd and Sevigny, and opened the grey metal doors with little concern for their surroundings.

An "Out of order" sign was affixed with masking tape to the elevator doors; from the yellowed look of the tape and the paper, the elevator hadn't worked for years. Remus passed the elevator without a second glance and headed directly for a steel door labeled "Stairs". The spiral stairs were clanging iron and lacked a railing. Peter eyed the spray-painted graffiti on the stairwell's walls with distaste--though his office building was equally shabby, it was always _clean_. This place was contaminated. It was festering like a dirtied wound.

Other painters, armed with the same spray paint but perhaps better intentions, had scrawled numbers on the steel doors that opened to the various floors. The second-floor door was missing a handle, and had been propped open with a chip of wood so that it could be used without forcing anyone to waste the expense of a new handle.

At the third floor, Remus paused and opened the door. Peter stepped through first, peering around at the hospital ecru of the walls. The doors were numbered with wooden plaques, only one of which seemed to have been stolen. Some doors even had nameplates.

"Why is this floor nicer?" Peter asked as his friend headed down the hall to the right.

"It's the only one that still has offices. The owners started renting out the first-floor offices as apartments to cover expenses, and then the ones on the second floor went. The fourth floor suffered a fire, and no one bothered to repair the damages after they collected the insurance money." He stopped at room 337 and knocked.

"Who's there?" The question seemed to catch Remus off-guard, as if he'd never been asked that before.

"It's Remus Lupin," he ventured.

A different, more familiar voice called, "Come in." Muttering followed. Remus opened the door with care and stepped inside slowly, motioning for Peter to follow. 

A rented office is a very predictable place. It invariably has nondescript, off-white walls with cracked and flaking paint, and generally has a permanent smell of cigarette smoke and old paper. If you search through the filing cabinets that line it, you'll always find a few papers that some previous tenant has left behind. There are coffee-rings on the wooden desk in the center, smoke-stains and water-stains on the ceiling, and ink-stains on the floor (which needs new finish). The lights will always flicker after you've flipped the switch, and erratically blink throughout the day. Sometimes, there will be a window; if so, it always opens onto the dingy and graffiti-streaked building across the street. In an attempt to add personality, the current tenant will usually hang cheery paintings or motivational slogans on the walls.

This was, for the most part, an accurate description of the place into which Peter stepped. The main difference was that the woman and two men hunched over the desk had not been mentioned.

One man was Lemuel Claret, who sat in the cracked-plastic swivel chair behind the desk. The other man was tall, thin, and had a mass of long, tawny hair. He also had a broken nose. The woman was short, plump, pale, and wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses.

"What have you found about the legal matters?" Lemuel asked directly, leaning over the desk.

Remus smiled, regaining his composure. "It's legal for us, as citizens of the wizarding community, to congregate wherever we like as long as we have permission from the property-owner. A part of the inalienable rights."

"And," Peter added as the thought came to him, "I don't see how you could press charges for the massacre we suffered; we didn't have permission to be on the minister's lawn, and the police are allowed to be as brutal as they like if the people apprehended seem to pose a threat."

"_Hijos de putas_!" breathed the man with the broken nose. "They can do something like this and face _no penalty_?" His Spanish accent was very pronounced.

"No penalty whatsoever," the woman murmured, shaking her head. "They make me sick!"

Mr. Claret took a few notes in shorthand, using a Muggle ballpoint pen with red ink. "Do you think we could arrange for Mr. Librian to put something in his advertisements about the victims? To ask those who've lost loved ones to send me the names of the dead?"

"Yes. If only to let it needle anyone who sees the advertisements. To remind them what we've suffered, and make them feel guilty enough to _help_ us." The woman took off her glasses and rubbed them clean on her mannish trousers. "Give them their own 'red collar' of guilt, eh, Carlos?"

The Spaniard smiled at her. "No one has worn a red collar for decades, Imiszke. But every time I try to get a wizard job . . ."

"Every time I try to even participate in wizard society . . ." she added, fingering her throat. "Every time, they know. Everyone has access to all of my personal information. They know my name, my age, my home, my jobs, my family and friends, my school records . . . we have no privacy! No right to keep even one detail of ourselves _to_ ourselves!"

"Anyone can look through your files whenever they want. DMLE offices keep them all in a filing cabinet marked _Werewolves_ . . ." Remus continued. "Anyone who cares to look me up would know that I got fifteen points taken from Gryffindor in my first year for deliberately transfiguring Professor McGonagall's hat. And I don't have to tell any of you what that means for my credibility whenever I try to get _anything_ accomplished."

Peter looked around at Carlos, Imiszke, and finally his longtime friend, Remus. "I never knew any of this. I thought you had full confidentiality. I thought . . . aren't you allowed to keep _anything_ private?"

Lemuel Claret shook his head as Carlos laughed shortly, and spoke in a slightly sarcastic monotone that suggested he had given this speech many times. "Werewolves are dangerous. They have no control over this, and so the British Ministry seems to believe that every other aspect of their lives has to be strictly regulated and observed to make up for it. Even their transformations aren't their own--they have to keep strict records of where they transform and have a respected member of society (meaning a non-werewolf) vouch for them."

Peter knew that part of the story. The letters that Remus wrote and got Dumbledore to sign (supposedly letters to his sick relatives) had later been revealed as records of his nightly transformation that contained the address of the Shrieking Shack, the times when the transformation began and ended, and whether any humans, animals, or property had been damaged. But Remus had not written everything . . . no one was interested in the damage he had caused himself during the first few years, and he didn't take note of his monthly adventures with his friends in later years.

"What is it like for vampires?" Peter asked. He wanted his files. He wanted to be looking through his manila folders in search of these regulations. Surrounded by papers, he could make sense of the laws that these people lived with day by day.

It would have been natural for Lemuel Claret to answer. But Carlos spoke instead. "In Spain, vampires are killed for trying to enter the country. Werewolves may be killers, but they are only deadly--" and these words had a scornful, terrifying bite "--during the full moon. Vampires are _always_ killers. Vampires cannot be suffered to live."

With a delicate, conciliatory gesture, Mr. Claret took the discussion. "Every country has a different policy. I've lived in Japan since 1911, and at that time they were as barbaric toward vampires as Spain, Romania, the Philippines, and Italy are today. Since then, their image of vampires has changed, but only because vampire society has changed. We made the decision to live without giving in to the blood craving. We chose to act nonviolently. We agreed that any one vampire's transgression was the fault of the society for failing to educate its members, and agreed to accept humane punishment for our failings. There are now rehabilitation clinics for blood addicts in Tokyo and Osaka. Japan has a vampire's list of rights--no other country has one." He smiled. "I've accomplished this. It was . . . it was hard. Harder than you can imagine. But I think we can have the same success here." Again, though his words were passionate, they carried the fluidity of long-repeated syllables.

Silence came. Peter's silence was awe. Imiszke and Carlos were strangers, and he could not understand their quiet. But he could see that Remus was searching for a reply, weighing the words he had heard and wondering what he could say to this pronouncement.

Imiszke shook off the silence more quickly than the rest. "It won't help your cause if I stand in your office all day. I must to get to work, but I promise to look at the Great Dome Diner right after. Matthias and I will have the first plans ready for you in no more than two days, all right?" She waited for Mr. Claret's nod before inclining in a slight, awkward bow and taking her leave.

"And I will tell my people what you have told me. That we should not fight each other . . . or take revenge for what they do to us." Carlos seemed to have trouble saying this. "We would follow you into battle, if you had the courage to lead us." He probed his broken nose, then bowed his head as well and stalked away, clearly unsatisfied.

Lemuel turned, looking up at Peter and Remus. His face was beginning to show age in the tugging wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, but for all they knew he might have looked like this for fifty years. He exuded harmlessness and a desire to please, like a pit-bull puppy that kept itself in check for love of its master. "Can I do anything else I can do for you two?" he asked.

Remus paused, shaking his head as though still trying words for a reply. "I see Imiszke and the Tuomalas and others, and . . . they're _helping_ people. They're actually doing something to make a difference. I want to do something real. Not just protesting or finding some listed law, but . . . I'll do whatever you think I should. Whatever will help others." He was still shaking his head, brown-grey eyes half closed, unsatisfied with how he had phrased his offer.

"Learn and teach." The werewolf looked up at the sudden, simple order. "Learn about our people. Learn why we are different, why we can or cannot control our conditions, how we came to be. Learn the laws under which we've lived, and how they've changed. We need that information . . . and there is too much that I have to do. I could not learn it in the time I have, and even if I made time, not as thoroughly as you could. I have seen the way you work at your studies and on our projects--with everything you have. Could you do this for us? Give everything you have to find this information for us?" For _us_--not for the man, not for the cause, but for the thousands who had to deal with their conditions for the rest of their lives. Remus might not have found the conviction to agree to this tall order for Lemuel Claret, and the cause was just hot air with hope behind it, but the _people_ . . . he could not disappoint them.

"And . . . teach?" Peter asked, feeling a power that had nothing to do with wands or chanting funny words--the power of intent. _Potential_.

The sheepish smile that responded to his question dashed the intensity of the moment. "The children in programs like Cub Aid get food and shelter while their parents are forced to cope with lycanthropy or vampirism or other conditions, but they aren't being educated. Iva and Urho are saints already, and there's only so much they can do. The truth is--" He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. "The truth is, only about thirty people in Britain are currently participating in some kind of aid program for our kind." Lemuel tapped the folder. "There are twelve organizations in all. Four are vampire counseling meetings; one of these takes hags as well. Two try to provide Wolfsbane potion for those who can't afford it or brew it themselves. Two are shelters for homeless H.W.A.I.P.C. The other four aid the children of H.W.A.I.P.C. These last six are full of impoverished men, women, and children. Most of them have never had a magical education; those who have went to Winston Hall." Wince. "They are unable to function in the Muggle world or the magical world. They will never move past this poverty unless they are educated."

"And I've had magical and Muggle education." Remus nodded. "How do I begin?"

"Could I help? I may not be much good at magic, but I could teach the adults how to use typewriters for Muggle jobs, or algebra," Peter added eagerly. "I'll bet that some of them are eligible for financial aid, too, and the workers should probably be getting compensation for their time and community service . . . maybe I should just focus on law. I'm good at wrestling money out of government hands."

"You can help us in that way, then--we need money to fund our protest. And Mr. Lupin, you can begin by visiting shelters and teaching as you see fit. But remember that these are homeless people. They don't need to know how to make colored sparks, they need solid vocational skills."

"I understand. Do you know the locations of any of the shelters?"

The vampire opened his folder, leafing through sheets of paper. Eventually, he found the one he was seeking. "Some of these shelters are connected to the Floo Network. Their call words are written by their names. The others have addresses listed."

"Thank you. I'll try to stop by tonight." Remus took the proffered paper, creasing it in half and then in half twice more and slipping it into his back pocket. He looked around the small office again. "Is there anything else I can do?"

A moment of intent flickered behind Mr. Claret's eyes, but he shook his head. "No. Nothing else that you can do. It was good to see you again, Mr. Lupin."

"Thank you. I hope we have success as you did in Japan. Goodbye." Remus patted his back pocket and moved toward the door. His friend Peter attempted a deep bow, overbalanced, caught himself, and smiled an apology as he waved in farewell and followed the werewolf outside.

The dark wooden door closed behind them with a slight creak of hinges. Lemuel blinked, then put his folder back into a desk drawer. He folded a hand over the smooth wood of the desk, feeling its uneven grain under his fingers as his other hand toyed with the pen. He closed his eyes.

Oh, there were successes in Japan. Japan was his triumph, his crowning glory, his one victory. If he failed everywhere else, they would always remember him for Japan. And he would always remember Japan. No one who had lived through those days could forget.

The country's defeat had been the catalyst. After the second World War, beaten Nippon had turned its efforts toward rebuilding and progress, with no time for persecution. Men once filled with a hunger for blood now knew the taste, had choked and retched and vomited with the taste of it. Vampires returned from war in China with minds so full of the sight of blood and cruelty that they could no longer stomach it. In the eyes of Japan's underground vampire population, it had seemed the perfect time for their own progress. 

Anonymous letters to the Prime Minister of Nippon's magical community were the only protests made at first. Careful, polite words in calligraphy spilled down page after page and were disregarded. Thousands of sheets of paper, all painstakingly filled with black ink pleas, were read and discounted. Then the first red letter had been sent.

No one knew who had sent the first red letter, but many would have paid dearly to know. The Minister offered a bounty for his head. The leader of the black letters campaign wanted to reprimand him. And the secret, angry vampire youth of Nippon wanted to hold him high and name him savior. _Freedom at any price. We will not leave. Accept the vampires, or we will conquer you_. These words written in red ink like a child's blood.

The youth who had known no war to curb their bloodlust took up the cry of hatred. More red letters flooded in to Tokyo. And then they had turned to violence. An Angel of Light, a Japanese Auror, was found hanging from a tree outside of Tokyo. His wrists had been slashed before he had died, and the red letter message had been painted on the tree in his blood. _Freedom at any price. We will not leave. Accept the vampires, or we will conquer you_. In a month, the young vampires killed twenty Angels of Light throughout Japan. In Kobe, where Lemuel had lived at the time, these corpses became known as Angel Lanterns.

Even as his brethren murdered, Lemuel continued to follow the peace-seekers. He remembered everything that he had done in China and wanted no part in killing. A once-concerted movement had split into two factions, and each faction hated the other. Sometimes hated the other more than the government. Everyone should have known what was coming.

Bloody Kobe. The Kobe Massacre. The Kobe Thirst. He still didn't know how it had started, but he had been there to watch the end. He had watched his friends and allies kill each other, screaming threats as they shot or stabbed or flung hexes and curses. Muggles--that was their name in Britain--were brought down in the melee as vampires fought each other, and Angels of Light tried to intervene without success. Blood had run down the street in rivulets like fingers of destruction. And some of the vampires had put their faces to the ground and licked the gore from the street, smearing their faces and clothes and hands with carnage.

Lemuel remembered watching the few surviving men and women claw at each other before succumbing to their thirst and abandoning the fray. And he remembered walking down the bloody road, picking his way amid bloodless bodies and severed limbs and torn clothing.

The bodies had been burned, the blood scoured away, and the protest saved . . . but that bloody street in Kobe remained locked away in Lemuel's head. Whenever the urge to gulp at torn veins threatened to overpower him, the images of the Kobe Massacre kept him strong.

There had been success in Japan, but there had been failure beyond measure. He opened his eyes.

The ballpoint pen snapped in clenched fingers, its plastic splintering and the ink soaking into Lemuel's hands. He shuddered as the dark, thick red liquid oozed across his palm and onto the cheap lacquer of the desk.

**Author's Note:** The vending machine I mention may seem like an anachronism; however, I have my father's word that they did indeed have such things at that point in time. A second matter--Lemuel Claret is stated as having lived in Japan, _not_ as being Japanese. And I'm really trying to "Brit-pick" this story; I may not always succeed, but I _am_ trying. Oh, and Carlos' rants in Spanish? Translated, they mean "They killed my people!" and, er, "Sons of _ladies of the night_" (loose translation there). Thank you to my dear shipmate Rage for telling me that this chapter was all right. I owe so much confidence to her, and so much to her for her kindness. +waves+ You're noticed! You're respected! You're worthwhile! And thanks, too, to AuthorByNight, who did the same and has seen me through some personal crisises. You're noticed! You're appreciated! You're admired! Why not check out both of their fics? 


	9. Doing Good

Mundungus Fletcher wasn't usually a scrupulous man. On Sunday mornings and at Christmas, he would occasionally adopt morals, but he had never conceived of a set of his own. He was fully aware of his lack, but found it as distressing as the lack of a virulent growth.

But last night he had spoken with someone whose morals were his favored children. This man had had a passionate love affair with decency that would put Casanova's exploits to shame. There had been warmth in that handshake they had shared, there had been conversation over a few card games (not played for money--the first time in years that Mundungus hadn't played for money), and then there had just been conversation. Mr. Claret's morals had been paraded before him like the photos in an enthusiastic family man's wallet, his agenda explained with the exuberance of one expounding on his son's Quidditch practices or his daughter's music lessons. Just watching the love that had been lavished on this cause had made Mundungus feel a guilty twinge. In those moments of discussion, he'd wanted principles of his own.

And it was bearing all of this in mind that he tentatively knocked on the door of the London Center for Lycanthropy Victims.

The door went unanswered for thirty seconds. Mundungus quelled the urge to turn around and go home--this was _not_ how he had planned to spend his Saturday afternoon. But instead of walking down that short gravel drive and back into his world, he grasped the metal doorknocker and rapped it firmly against the green-painted wood of the door. Adjusting his flamboyant black and violet suit, he stepped back and waited.

After a few seconds, the door opened, and a thin man with a thinner comb-over peered at Mundungus through a large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked Mundungus up and down, opening his mouth and closing it again several times as though chewing what he was trying to say and not liking its taste. "Are you . . . from the Ministry?" he ventured. He opened the door a bit further and gestured Mundungus inside. "Only we weren't expecting an inspection . . . if you'd like to see our papers--"

"I'm not from the Ministry. I'm here to help you." He couldn't quite bring himself to pass through the doorframe. That would require _commitment_. _Dedication_.

"We can't afford to pay employees; I'm sorry, son." The man made to close the door, and Mundungus swallowed his pride.

"No--that's not it. I'd like to," he swallowed again, "volunteer."

The door opened a bit more, and the odd man wiped his spectacles on his blue flannel shirt. "A volunteer? Do you know anything about medicine, or teaching?"

The port into respectable citizenship loomed, and Mundungus walked through it. He shut the door behind him. "Not exactly, not as such, no," he answered, and swept the room with a glance.

It was a resident's common room. A rack of much-used magazines stood on an end table by the large, sagging, mustard-brown couch. Various chairs were scattered around the room, easy chairs or hard wooden seats or steel folding chairs. One behemoth of a recliner sat in a place of honor by the fireplace. The fluorescent lighting and black-and-white tiled floor seemed incongruous against the warmth of the furnishings. The receptionist's desk in the back of the room hinted at a time when this had been some sort of waiting room.

"Is there anything in particular I could do?" Mundungus asked. He felt as out-of-place as the lights overhead and the floor underfoot.

"First, sign your name here." A clipboard was thrust at his chest, and taken cautiously. Mundungus scribbled an illegible signature with a proffered quill pen. There was a trace of pride in the flourishes with which he drew the swooping curves of his name; his clients had never been able to decipher his handwriting.

Bespectacled brown eyes perused the various loops and lumps. "Mundungus Fletcher? Hmm. Have you got any special talents or such that the people here might learn?"

"I've never lost a game of chance, if you know what I mean . . .." Here, that sounded very weak. These people needed job skills, not card tricks. They needed futures.

But the man was smiling grimly. "That may be useful. Come with me--I'll introduce you to our residents."

The hallway behind the common room was lined with doors, each with a paper nametag on the front. The first one they passed read "Jenny Kirk" in large script, surrounded by stars and simple smiling faces in black ink. Mundungus didn't have to ask--that was a child's room. The next door bore a simpler nametag, with "Morris Murphy" written on it in plain block writing. This was the door that the man opened.

"Morris? You have a visitor," he called, and poked his head around the door. A voice from the other side murmured something, and after a moment, the head was withdrawn. "You can go in now, Mr. Fletcher."

"What was your name?" Mundungus asked as the man made to leave.

"Er, Stephen Livingstock." Mr. Livingstock smiled a little, and then made his way back down the hall.

Left alone, Mundungus cautiously opened the door. The lights were off in the room, but the place was full of an eerie, flickering glow. A man sat on a cot, his back to the door, staring at a box of pictures that was the source of the glow. A lump in silhouette near the man's knee might have been the head of someone sitting on the floor. The box of pictures suddenly went dark, plunging them all into blindness.

"_What did you bloody do that for?!_" Irate and thick and as Irish as a shillelagh, the voice thrust blindly into the darkness, intent on smacking the miscreant who had made the box go blank.

Right. Mundungus had been in a Muggle house before, and knew exactly what to do--he groped through the darkness by the side of the door, and eventually hit the little lever that made light appear.

The man who had been sitting on the cot was now standing, gesticulating at the pictures box and the person sitting next to the cot. He looked up at Mundungus, blinking small, dark eyes in the sudden light. His hair was greasy, and his nose was red despite the fact that the cold season had been two months ago--this Irishman, Morris Murphy, was a drinker. He frowned. "Who are you?" Morris demanded, squinting.

For the first time in his life, Mundungus Fletcher said, "Um . . .."

----

__

The Board of Directors -- Department of Magical Law Enforcement

15 Government Boulevard

Wizard London, UK

D. Ms. Fletchley,

The Board of Directors has received a petition for the reinstatement of Captain Macmillan of the Hit Wizards. While we are considering his case, we request that you provide a valid reason for his abrupt dismissal and complete Form 8b.ii. You are obligated by force of law to comply within forty-eight hours.

No legal recourse is being taken against you at this time. You may be brought to court for testimony at a later date (unspecified).

Beatrice Greenblatt

Head of the Board of Directors -- Department of Magical Law Enforcement

"Christine? Christine? _Chris?_" The voice registered, and Chris jerked up from the letter. A face swam into focus.

"Heh . . . Cleatus?" She shook her head to clear the image of crabbed handwriting.

He raised an eyebrow and indicated the folder in his hand. "I have the name--Lemuel Claret--and his file. And I had to bother the Japanese DMLE to get it; you have no _idea_ how difficult it is to sift through their bureaucracy to find one man! And they lump vampires in with everyone else over there, so he was immeasurably hard to locate. To say _nothing_ of the language difficulties I had! There's me with my head in the fireplace, watching them yammer at each other in Japanese while they looked for a translator; I _finally_ got a man who spoke English, but he--"

Chris squinted at the faint red mark on Cleatus' throat. "What happened to your neck?"

His free hand touched the thin, inflamed line of raw skin. "Nothing."

"No--tell me."

There was a moment of unease, and the man's eyes flickered to the side. "Er . . . I cut myself shaving this morning." He put the folder on Chris' desk. "From what I've read--from what I've been able to read is more accurate, really, as so very much of this is in Japanese--Claret is a businessman. He's famous for leading a vampire's protest about twenty years ago. He served in some military endeavors, but with the layout of these reports and a typical 'if we lost, it didn't happen' approach, I can't tell exactly how many wars. He got a traffic violation three years ago, if it helps us at all."

Chris examined the neat lines of print or calligraphy, frowning. "Don't you know Japanese? Weren't you speaking it when we went out for dinner last month?"

Cleatus hefted a sigh. "We were in a sushi place. Unless there's a mention of seaweed on his permanent record, my linguistic skills are useless."

The desk drawers were singularly devoid of highlighters; Chris felt at a loss. Then wizarding education took the place of Muggle habit, and she took out her wand. "_Anglo textum luminus!_" And then, the lack of highlighted English words apparent . . . "_Why_ don't we have all-language translator spells yet? Send a memo to Charms and Curses about it. It's not as though they have anything more important to do."

Cleatus clapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh! Some fellow from the Dark Resistance branch told me to tell you that a woman on the Committee was found dead in her house today. Mr. Lee isn't sure if it's a Dark crime or a general crime . . . you dealt with that mass-murderer three years ago, and so they thought you might like to look into it."

"Why would I like to 'look into' it? I'm not on the patrol force anymore. I'm not _supposed_ to 'look into' cases. Anyway, I have to deal with this bloody _mistake_ before I can do anything else--do you see this?" She thrust the letter from the Board of Directors at Cleatus' stomach. "I only fired Macmillan this morning, and he's already applied to get back in! One dead woman . . . it's sad." Softness crept into her voice. "It's sad, and I feel sorry for her family, but one dead woman isn't enough to get my personal attention."

"The thing of it is, it may well be more than one dead woman." Chris conjured a chair, and Cleatus sank into it. "You remember that your murderer always left an X carved into the bedroom doors of the women he killed?" She remembered. She remembered the bodies behind those doors, and shuddered. "Well, this murderer has left his own X--there was some kind of image floating over the house. I didn't get many details; you'll have to ask the blokes in Dark Resistance to tell you more. But it seems to me that murderers only 'sign' their work if they intend to do it again."

__

The woman in the bed . . . a bag of flesh and organs, all of her bones turned to liquid . . . blood on the sheets . . . that horrible X, carved into the flaccid skin of her stomach . . .. "I'll do what I can. Anything I can." Her mind shied away from those memories, scampering to the safety of the papers on her desk. "Now. Claret. How do we make him speak with us?"

----

"We could be on to something, though," Yariv contended. "Muggle phones don't work in the wizarding world, you know, but if we use magic to make something that works _like _a phone . . . it's convergent wossname. Evolution."

"And then, we patent!" Waldenius cackled. Clouden was laboring over a dictionary, searching for the right phonetic symbols. He muttered something about dots that 'didn't ought to be there' and scritched at his paper. "Hah! Look on this, lads!" He presented them with their log, the ink still wet on the new entry.

Yariv examined the thing critically. "You've got the upside-down 'e' backwards." He corrected the letter with a quick spell. "And you didn't take down the wand motion."

Sirius waved a hand. "Don't listen to what the Charms professors say. It doesn't matter how you swish or flick your wand; it just matters that you say the spell the way you're supposed to. Who wants to clean up?"

There was a discordant pause. The floor was covered with string, twine, and yarn of all types and colors. Cans of root beer, YinGo soda, and soup lay discarded across the surfaces of the room. A puddle of beef stew sulked in the corner by the counter. All combinations of empty cans and string had worked satisfactorily, though the wizarding soda cans coupled with waxed twine had been the most effective. These particulars had been jotted down on a paper that wasn't visible at the moment; Sirius suspected that the trial-and-error sheets were under the shredded fibers that had littered the place when he had accidentally shouted "_sunderitwinus_". Bloody useful spell if you were tied up, but it only added to the mess now.

No volunteers were forthcoming. Sirius flipped to the first page of the log and read the first entry. "You'd think I'd know this by now . . . _ablutium totalis_!" he muttered, flicking his wand.

A firm knock at the door tore their attention from the clutter that was drifting to the cabinets. Johan Kantes stepped in, grimaced at the state of the room, and announced, "Mr. Callahan's calling a conference. He says you can leave your work." He stared at the yarn. "Er . . . macramé?" he guessed. "Thought you were on the communications project?"

"We'll explain at the meeting. Is it five o'clock already?" Yariv dug out his pocket-watch. "It's only two-thirty. Why's the meeting early?" Johan shrugged. "Your hair is back! But why is it . . .?"

He ran a hand through the scintillating mass of silver-green locks--the same hue as the scales that had once covered his scalp. "We're working on it. I was about to do a dye charm when we got called to the meeting." With a _follow_ motion, he led them to Room 521.

The _aroma_ that hit them like a mallet as they walked in announced succinctly that Hildegard had reversed her scent-dampening charm. Stanislav was smirking--Leonhart had probably failed to create the perfume charm. The woman had something of a block when it came to the feminine arts; she had so far bungled the lipliner, slimming, and 'support' assignments in quick order.

Callahan entered the room, followed by a man wearing a black uniform with a red cape. Their expressions were carefully blank, but a tic throbbing over Callahan's left eye sold his secrets. He took his seat, and the stranger stood behind him.

For a moment, there was pure, apprehensive silence. Callahan opened and closed his mouth several times, but said nothing. At length, the stranger spoke.

"I am Constable Yancy of the DMLE, Dark Resistance division." He indicated the badge pinned on his cloak. "I'll be very blunt: Ms. Olga Ingenborg is dead."

"Not Olga!" Hildegard shouted, leaning over the table. "No!" Anger in her eyes.

"Her body was found in her house by a neighbor this morning," Constable Yancy continued relentlessly. "Now, none of you are suspects--I just need for you to co-operate with me. I'll be asking you a few questions, all right?" His eyes scanned the shocked faces. "Which of you is Sirius Black?"

Sirius couldn't speak. This was too much to take in quickly--only hours ago, he had been laughing with Yariv about how Olga would look, sound, or smell at the closing meeting. Only yesterday, Olga had brought everyone tea and sweets. True, the sweets had been rock-hard and the tea only lukewarm, but her intentions had been good. Last week, she'd given Natasha a birthday card with a cheerful little message--no one else had even known that Stanislav _had_ birthdays. Because that was the kind of person Olga was--blustering, jolly, considerate, and firmly convinced that the right attitude made up for less than perfect results.

Sirius stood. "That's me." Constable Yancy smiled in sympathy.

"Come with me. I promise to make this as painless as possible."

----

Mr. Livingstock leafed through the account records. He was so _sure_ they'd gotten a larger sum from the Ministry last year--he couldn't recall any reason that the government would have had to reduce its usual funds. If anything, monies should have increased. Hadn't the Center become overpopulated and understaffed? How did the Ministry justify an account transfer of only sixty-eight sickles, twelve knuts, and some suspicious foreign currency?

Three measured, resounding knocks brought his head up from the records. Stephen scurried out from behind the receptionist's desk and answered the door--he'd had fantastic luck last time; maybe opening the door would be equally successful _this_ time.

He was a bit dispirited to see a face that he knew well. "Ah, Mr. Lupin. Teaching job not panning out?" he inquired. Remus shook his head.

"The job's going splendidly, actually. Professor Grimes says that in two years, I should complete my education, and then I can teach professionally in Muggle schools," explained the werewolf. "I may never need to stay here again."

"And they never asked about your records from primary and secondary school?" Mr. Livingstock inquired--this was far too good to be true.

Remus grinned. "No--but why should they? I want to teach classical mythology. They _beg_ for people willing and able to fill that position."

"So . . . if you don't need to stay here . . .."

"I thought I ought to give something back."

Stephen's mind danced across the accounts. "I don't suppose you know anything about account records, and . . . and government donations, and such?"

The short man behind Remus put out a hand. "I do. I work with the Bureau of Loopholes. Peter Pettigrew."

They were led inside and to the desk. Stephen handed Peter a sheaf of papers covered with sums and numbers, which were accepted gravely. "The thing of it is, I can't see why we get less every year. Taxes have gone up--I should know--and failing a war, money to charities like mine should have followed."

Peter's brows drew together. "But there _is_ a war! For goodness' sake, don't forget about You-Know-Who."

"Who? There's . . . been a war?"

Remus looked from one to the other. "Not really a war. There's been a string of attacks on branches of the Ministry dealing with Muggles in the last . . . perhaps nine years; the Muggle Protection Division was decimated my last year at Hogwarts. The government thinks that one person or organization is behind it, but they can't find the culprit. So we call him You-Know-Who. How couldn't you have heard of it?"

"I'd had no idea . . .." All color went out of Mr. Livingstock's face. "You know that I'm not usually in the magical world at all . . . I haven't used my wand since, oh, '75 . . . even when I do associate with wizards, they never breathed a word to me." But, as with many men who have lived a long time on next to nothing and expect to live a lot longer, pragmatism immediately followed the emotional reaction. "It's just been attacks on the Ministry . . . just on the Muggle branches? And there haven't been any, er, private citizens hurt?"

"There's no threat to you or me that I can see," Remus said.

Three sheets of paper fell out of Peter's hands. "Ah--pick those up for me, will you, sir?" Stephen bent, a joint cracking unpleasantly as he stood. "These will get you a bit more money--see, you've got foreign residents who aren't UK citizens **. . .** so you're allowed to apply for donations from their home countries. And _this_ one . . ."

Remus let Peter do what he did best, and walked to the corridor that housed some of London's poorest werewolves. His feet almost carried him to the second door on the right; it bore a different nametag now, though, and he had a different address.

Morris, though, was still in residence. The man couldn't keep a job for more than a fortnight at a time, and he spent what money he made on drinks. Stephen used to always say that he'd throw Morris out on his ear in another week . . . but Stephen never threw anyone out. Remus touched the doorknob, fancying he could hear Morris' beloved tee-vee through the door--some loud program. He turned the knob.

The loudness was _people_. People shouting and waving wands, dropping dice and slapping cards on the floor, people shooting off sparks and swilling drinks and cheering.

At the hub of this activity sat a man in a rather expensive-looking outfit, his back to the door. He laughed as loudly as the drunks and slapped Morris on the back as though they'd been friends for years.

"And listen, you have your wand--right--up your sleeve! And just say the words, and you've got straight sixes!"

"Mr. Fletcher?" The man in the violet suit's head jerked up, and he grinned.

"Remus, is it? Remus, look! I'm doing _good_!"

----

Constable Yancy had a piece of paper and a streamlined quill out on the table between them, and beckoned for Sirius to sit.

"How well did you know Ms. Ingenborg?" he asked, and the quill took down his words.

"I . . .." How well had he known her? "She's worked here a little longer than I have . . . I met her here, and she was always very nice to me. To everyone."

"Did you ever interact with her outside of the workplace?" the constable prompted.

"Not really . . . I once saw her in Diagon Alley, and we waved at each other." It sounded so stupid to say that. And it seemed suddenly stupid that he had lived like that. Why hadn't he tried to get to know her in the real world?

"Did she ever talk about what she did outside of the workplace?"

"Er, she was always talking about Muggle music, and she said she liked to shop in Soho. And . . . well, she must've been to Diagon Alley at least once."

He nodded, and the quill noted that as well. "Do you know if Olga had any enemies?"

Sirius thought about this question. It asked, _do you know any potential suspects_? He suspected that the grocer Olga had always despised wasn't the kind of enemy that Constable Yancy meant. "No, I don't know." He looked pleadingly at the man across the table. "I'm sorry I don't know any more."

"It's all right. When you go back into the conference room, would you send Waldenius Clouden in here?"

"Yes, sir."

When he was halfway through the door, the constable called, "Wait--turn 'round."

Sirius turned, slowly, and saw a card with a picture of a skull on it . . . a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. "Have you ever seen this before?"

He peered at the image, trying to summon a memory. "I think I saw something like that in a film once . . .." But Constable Yancy shook his head.

"Thank you for your time."

----

"We can't say _that_, Christine! It's tantamount to a threat!"

She scratched out the section she'd just written with irritation in every penstroke. "I don't know how else you'd say it. _The situation will worsen for you and for your supporters if you do not accept this invitation to discuss . . ._ to discuss . . . er, Cleatus?"

"_To discuss the unfortunate events of Friday._ But we can't just say that the situation will _worsen_ . . . It sounds as though we're proposing to worsen the situation." He hunched over the paper, staring at the words as if willing them to phrase themselves properly and save him the effort.

"All right." She crossed out the last sentence. "_This invitation to discuss the events of Friday can serve as a platform for you, and you will also seem to be on the side of law in Wizarding Britain._ If you can't threaten them, bribe 'em, as my sergeant used to say."

"Sergeant Toland?" Chris nodded. "He _would_ say that." She wrote a bit more.

"You've spelled _opportunity_ with only one 'p'."

Chris surveyed the letter. It was covered with the thick black marks that edited a piece of writing in the way that something large and blunt edits a block of chalk**.** She passed the final product to Cleatus, and his eyes passed over it with an alarming brand of frank astonishment. But at last, he just nodded.

"You'll have to write it over, of course."

"I know. But is it all of _this _that I should be writing over?" He looked at the page again.

"Yes . . . and if I were you," he said, very slowly, as he felt the echo of a solid kick to the chest, "I would also request the names of everyone we killed, and personally send my condolences to their families."


End file.
